by Natalie Cox
“The thing about fleas,” says Jez, “is that they’re surprisingly clever. It’s like they can sense the comb coming, and when they do, they scamper. So you need to comb in all the out-of-the-way places because that’s where they’ll be hiding. They’re agile little buggers. If humans had the jumping power of fleas, someone your size could clear the height of that barn,” she says, indicating the building behind us.
“So we should show some respect,” I say, nodding thoughtfully.
“Exactly,” says Jez, handing me the comb and the dog. “They’re a worthy opponent.”
I sit on a stool with the Pomeranian balanced on my thighs. The dog looks at me with startled, pink-rimmed eyes. In spite of what amounts to a ludicrous amount of hair, the dog’s body is no bigger than a small grapefruit, and considerably less solid. It’s an ideal tossing weight, really, what Sian would call a dropkick dog. And it is so docile I begin to wonder if it hasn’t been doped by the owner, though tranquilizers don’t strike me as very organic. The more obvious explanation is that it actually likes being groomed, a suspicion that is confirmed a moment later when the Pomeranian seems to almost shiver with pleasure.
“Hey, what’s this one called, anyway?” I shout over to Jez. She sticks her head out of the barn door.
“Hermione.”
“Figures.”
“But I call her Hulk.”
* * *
It takes nearly two hours of combing before Hulk is given the all clear by Jez. I set her down on the ground and she minces away daintily, as if a shampoo and set were all that was necessary. I stand up and groan, rubbing my lower back. Dog-grooming is far harder on your muscles than being hunched over a computer screen all day, I decide. I turn to see Jez lifting an enormous sack of dry dog food from the back of the Land Rover. “Need help with that?” I ask a little unenthusiastically.
“No, thanks, I can manage.” Jez hoists the sack up onto her shoulder with a grunt and disappears into the barn, and I follow. I know it’s unwise, but I’ve spent a considerable part of the last couple of hours replaying the conversation with Bovine Cal in my mind.
“So, how come the vet was here?” I ask as casually as I can. Jez is busy decanting the dry dog food into an enormous trash can.
“Slab’s been really constipated. It happens to old dogs. It can be quite painful if you don’t treat it.”
I nod, not really wanting the details. “Have you known him long?”
Jez stops and sets the bag down, one eyebrow raised. “Slab?” she asks.
I color. “Bovine Cal.”
“Bovine Cal? Did you call him that to his face?”
“No!” I say hotly. “Well, sort of,” I admit.
Jez laughs, then lifts the bag again to finish the pouring. “Bet he loved that,” she says.
“What’s with him, anyway? He was a bit . . .” I pause.
“Grumpy?” asks Jez with a grin.
“I was going to say patronizing.”
She finishes emptying the bag and puts it down.
“I’ve known Cal forever. He’s really not that bad once you get to know him. Sometimes his manner can be a little off-putting. To humans, at least. I don’t think the animals notice,” she adds with a grin.
“Great,” I say.
“He’s been in a bit of a rut lately. Think he’s found it hard to shake off.”
Join the club. At least we have that much in common.
“How lately?”
She stops and thinks. “A year or so? Maybe longer.” I frown.
“That’s not a rut,” I say. “That’s more like . . . a gorge.” Jez shrugs.
“Well, you know vets. Most of them prefer animals to people.”
Really? “So he hates bipeds?” I say.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” says Jez, dragging the bin back to the corner.
I look up at her hopefully.
“He’s crazy about birds.”
Fine. Bird-and-Bovine Cal is clearly a nonstarter. Who needs hunky medical guys anyway? Especially ones with complicated backstories. Anyway, it’s far too early to be on the prowl. I’ve only been single for two weeks. I should still be in my post-breakup fasting period: no dates, no flirtations, definitely no random hookups with strangers in bars or kennels. Love-lite is going to be my maxim for the holidays.
“So, are you ready for your next chore?” Jez asks.
“Sure,” I say. Because what could be worse than slaughtering vermin with your bare hands? She picks up an odd-looking tool with the handle of a spade and a pair of metal jaws at its base.
“What’s that?” I ask suspiciously.
“Pooper-scooper.”
“Seriously?”
Jez grins and holds it out to me. “All part of the glamour.”
chapter
5
Ah, the countryside! There must be a thousand things to occupy myself with here. But apart from the dogs, I am genuinely hard-pressed to think what they would be. I’m sure Devon has all kinds of diversions, which I am bound to discover in due course. And in the meantime, the fresh air will do me good.
So, if nothing else, I can while away the hours breathing.
As long as I don’t mind sharing the air with dogs.
Jez has five “clients” boarding with her at the moment, though she’s due to lose three over the course of the next few days. Christmas is traditionally a slow time of year for dog kennels, she explains over lunch. Pet owners go all warm and fuzzy around this time: they want to bond with their animals over the holiday period, even if they’re happy to pack them off to boarding school for the rest of the year. Except, of course, for those who have holiday homes in far-flung places, like Antigua or Cape Town: those pets are booked in annually and come fully prepared with Christmas stockings lovingly assembled by their owners. Jez will be expected to parcel these out on Christmas morning and, in the more extreme cases, take videos of the dog unwrapping its gifts.
“Seriously?” I ask. “But I don’t even get a Christmas stocking. Come to think of it, I haven’t had a Christmas stocking in years.” Somewhere around my twelfth birthday, my mother had announced in her brook-no-opposition voice that since Father Christmas was a thing of the past, so, too, were stockings. My mum always resented the extra work Christmas involved, and made no secret of that fact, often referring to it as “Mother’s Festival.”
“You can share with Slab,” says Jez with a grin.
“Clearly I was born into the wrong family,” I muse.
“Or the wrong species,” says Jez.
* * *
The next morning I wake feeling almost normal. When I look in the mirror I’m pleased to see that my right cheek is no longer swollen, though my temple has developed a rather fetching lurid yellow bruise. Last night, Jez dug out some spare clothes for me: faded dungarees, a few T-shirts, and an old wool cardigan that had probably been a nice shade of burgundy at one time but now reminded me of the remnants at the bottom of a glass.
When I go downstairs to breakfast, Jez already has her coat on and is pulling on her boots. She casts her eyes over my outfit with approval. “Farm-chic suits you.”
“Who knew?” I reply, heading for the coffee. “Where you off to?”
“We. Bring your coffee in the car,” she says, holding out my coat. “We’ve got a date.”
I frown. “With who?”
“An old friend. Who’s dying to meet you.”
“Fine,” I say, shrugging on my coat. “But just so you know, I don’t do threesomes.”
I assumed we were off to meet one of Jez’s school friends, but when we walk into the post office ten minutes later, I find myself face-to-face with a tiny, birdlike woman with honey-brown skin and snow-white hair piled atop her head in a delicately spun nest. “Geraldine, this is my cousin Charlie,” announces Jez. “Charlie, this is Gerald
ine, postmistress extraordinaire.”
“Call me Gerry.” The woman smiles. “No one but Jezebel here calls me Geraldine.” She wipes her hands on a cream-colored apron printed with faded songbirds and sticks out her hand. Her grip is surprisingly strong; I look down and see that her knuckles bulge like burnished walnuts.
“Very good to meet you,” says Gerry.
“Charlie’s visiting. From London,” Jez tells her.
Gerry tips her head to the side and appraises me. “Ah. The siren call of the countryside,” she says. “We all hear it, sooner or later.”
Do we? I shoot Jez a look and she shrugs, as if to say: Don’t go there.
“Are you staying for the pageant?” asks Gerry.
Once again I turn to Jez with raised eyebrows. “Um . . . What pageant is that?” To me the word pageant immediately conjures a long line of toothy blondes wearing matching tiaras and identical swimsuits.
“The Christmas pageant,” says Gerry.
Ah. That sort of pageant. The blondes instantly morph into a row of weeping Virgin Marys. “I’m afraid not,” I say apologetically.
And in the exact same instant Jez says: “Definitely.”
There’s an awkward beat while Jez and I exchange glances, but Gerry blasts right through it. “Cross Bottomley hosts the most marvelous Christmas pageant,” she tells me. “You’ll love it. Everyone does. It’s the highlight of the year.”
I give her a frozen smile. Christmas! Inescapable, inviolable, unbeatable.
“She wouldn’t miss it for the world,” says Jez smoothly.
“Of course she wouldn’t,” says Gerry with a wave, as if this is a foregone conclusion. “Hang on a minute. I nearly forgot why you’ve come.” She turns away and spends a minute poking among a long series of wooden cubbyholes behind her. “Ah. Here we are,” she says finally, pulling out a small parcel from one of the cubbyholes. She turns around and hands it to Jez, who looks at it with a frown. The parcel is about the size of a box of tea and is wrapped in plain brown paper.
“What is it?” asks Jez, staring down at the parcel and turning it over.
“Why not open it and find out?” suggests Gerry.
Jez hesitates. “The postmark is from Finland,” she says. I can just make out the tiniest of tremors hidden inside her voice.
“So it is,” murmurs Gerry.
Jez looks up at her, and the older woman raises an eyebrow. Suddenly it’s like they’re speaking some private language that is completely incomprehensible to me. Jez slowly unwraps the paper, picking at each end cautiously, as if the parcel itself might protest. Eventually the paper slides free to reveal a plain white cardboard box. Jez lifts the lid and all three of us crane forward to see inside. Nestled in a bed of cotton wool is a tiny object made of what looks like bleached white bone. “Oh my God,” whispers Jez.
“What is it?” I ask.
“If it’s what I think it is, then it’s a bloody miracle,” Jez says under her breath. She carefully lifts it out of the box and holds it up. It takes me a few seconds to work out what it is.
“Is that . . . a miniature sledge?” I ask, puzzled. Jez nods, beaming.
The sledge is a perfectly carved replica made of worn wood and what looks like bleached ivory. The runners resemble long, thin tusks and the tiny, upright staves are delicately turned with round finials. A series of thin slats is intricately lashed to the runners with pale brown sinew, and a tiny ivory clover is suspended between the staves as a simple ornament.
“I’ve been searching for one of these for ages,” says Jez. “It’s taken me almost three years to find!”
“It was worth the wait,” says Gerry admiringly, casting an appraising eye over the sledge. “How old is it?”
“This is probably nineteenth century,” says Jez, turning the sledge over and peering at the bottom.
“Where did it come from?” I ask.
“Greenland, probably. The Inuit used to carve them and give them as gifts at Christmas.”
“But . . . who sent it to you?”
Jez hesitates. “I’m not completely sure,” she says slowly, in a way that suggests precisely the opposite.
She lifts the remains of the cotton wool and peers at the bottom of the box, then carefully lays the sledge back in the wool. She starts to replace the lid, then notices a small square of paper fixed to the inside. “Hang on,” she says. “There’s something taped to the lid.” Jez pries the paper off and unfolds it, her eyes scanning the length of the page.
“What does it say?” asks Gerry.
Jez takes a deep breath. “It’s an invitation,” she says, staring at the paper.
“From who?” I ask.
Jez shoots a look at Gerry.
“Father Christmas,” says Gerry with a smile.
* * *
Five minutes later Jez and I are back in the Land Rover, barreling down the road, and I am none the wiser. The white cardboard box sits on the seat between us like an incendiary device, and if anything, Jez’s driving is even more erratic than usual. She keeps flexing her grip on the steering wheel and her jaw is working overtime, the muscles clamping and unclamping in rhythmic spasms. She comes to a sharp bend and downshifts, the car lurching heavily to one side. I grab the dashboard to steady myself and decide that if we’re going to die because of the contents of that damn box, then I reckon I have a right to know why.
“I’m afraid I still don’t understand. Who exactly are you going to visit?”
Jez hesitates. “A friend,” she says eventually. It’s the way she says friend, drawing the word out into two syllables, that makes me realize . . .
“What sort of friend?” I ask cautiously.
“It’s complicated.”
“So are algorithms. Try me.”
“The thing is, we’ve never actually—” Jez starts to speak, but then her voice breaks off. “Not face-to-face, at any rate. We’ve only just . . .” Jez pauses again, flushing. It’s like she’s carrying on a conversation with herself.
“Only what? C’mon, Jez. Don’t be so obtuse!”
Jez sneaks a quick glance over at me, then looks back at the road. “We’ve only Vibered.”
“‘Vibered’?”
“We speak on Viber every day. Sometimes twice a day. Or even three times,” she admits a little sheepishly.
“Where does your . . . friend live?”
“In northern Finland. Lapland, actually. She’s doing a PhD in anthropology at the Arctic Research Institute.”
Lapland? Arctic research? Man, have I had Jez pegged wrong!
“How did you meet?” I ask.
“On a dogsledding website.”
At this I burst out laughing. “Are you serious?”
“It’s not as strange as it sounds. Eloise is an enthusiast, too. And we started corresponding. And one thing led to another.”
“To . . . what, exactly?”
Jez shrugs. “You know . . . a thing.”
“What sort of thing. And how long has it been going on?”
“Awhile,” Jez admits. She glances over at me. “Nearly two years,” she confesses.
“You’ve been having a phone romance for two years?” I cannot conceal my amazement.
“It doesn’t feel like that long.”
“And you’ve never met?”
Jez hesitates. “Well, we were both busy. And it was going so well. And we didn’t want to . . . spoil it.”
By meeting? But then, who am I to criticize? I’d been living cheek by jowl with my boyfriend and I had managed to spoil that easily enough.
“Viber,” I say, frowning slightly. “Does that mean just talking? Or do you . . . do other stuff?” Jez laughs.
“None of your business,” she says. She downshifts again and pulls into the Cozy Canine driveway, grinding the car to a halt. Once
the engine is off, she turns to me with an arch look. “The thing about Viber is, it’s very versatile.”
“Never mind. I don’t want to know.”
“Don’t be such a prude.”
“I am not a prude,” I say, affronted.
Am I a prude? Maybe I’m a little bit of a prude.
“So . . . you really don’t mind if I go?” she asks.
“To Lapland? Why should I mind?”
“Because it means being on your own for a few days. Actually, a couple of weeks. And I promised your mum I’d look after you.”
“Jez! I’m not a five-year-old. I don’t need looking after. Irrespective of what my mother says. Anyway, I’m only here for a couple of days. As soon as I get the all clear from the insurance company, I’ll be straight back to London.”
Jez smiles. “Thanks, cuz. You’re the best.”
“What will you do about the dogs?”
“I’ll get someone in. There are loads of people around who need work.”
Thank Christ for that! I’d been terrified she was going to ask me to help out, and as much as I love Jez, I have absolutely no intention of spending Christmas with quadrupeds. Anyway, I have a date with Audrey.
We might even Viber.
chapter
6
A techno romance! I think that night in bed. Something I have never in my wildest dreams considered. Maybe I really am a prude. The irony is this: as fond as I am of Jez, I’ve always secretly regarded her as something of a country bumpkin. It was me who was the urbane Londoner with the übercool job in the cutting-edge industry; Jez was the wool-clad animal-lover, scraping together a living in the countryside. But now I’m single and Jez is having a thoroughly twenty-first-century romance with an academic on the outer reaches of the Arctic Circle. It is all rather glamorous and bewildering. And, I have to admit, a little bit thrilling.