by Natalie Cox
“It’s a country lane!”
“It’s an A road!”
“Is it really?” I say, surprised. “Anyway, we were only on it for a minute.” Which is true.
“A minute that could have ended in disaster.”
“But it didn’t.”
Cal shakes his head again.
“You’re clearly mad. And Jez is even more so, for leaving you in charge.” He glares at me, then turns and stalks back to his car. I watch him climb into the Volvo, rev the engine like a toddler, then speed off.
Before I can even ask how the hell I get the sulky back to the farm.
chapter
10
I am a strong, independent woman. I do not need man candy to help me get two dogs and a glorified tricycle back to the kennels. I leave the sulky where it is and detach the harnesses, using them as dog leads to walk the twins back down the road to the paddock, where I close the gate and turn them loose.
“Go on,” I say. “Playtime.”
Both dogs turn to me with a look of confusion, as if they haven’t the faintest idea what they are meant to do. They sniff the grass for a moment, then lie down, like this is some sort of staging post on the next leg of the relay.
“Fine, suit yourselves. I’ll be back in ten.” I leave them in the paddock and trudge back down the lane to get the sulky. I drag it like a cart horse up the track and back onto the A road, cars whizzing past, trying my best to look nonchalant. Just as I am nearing the Cozy Canine turnoff I catch a glimpse of a familiar green sports car. It slows as it passes, then pulls in and stops. After a moment Handsome Hugo steps out and waves. Ahoy there!
“Are you all right? Do you need help?” he calls, motioning toward the sulky.
“No, I’m fine.” With my free hand I wave back and Hugo gives me a bewildered smile. He comes a bit closer.
“I thought you might be in some sort of trouble.” He indicates the sulky.
“No, just . . . out for a test drive,” I say breezily, as if it is perfectly normal to be dragging a small vehicle behind me like a drudge early on a winter’s morning.
“Oh. Right. How was it?” he asks, looking perplexed.
“Handles beautifully. Especially off road,” I say.
“Excellent. Well, then. Guess I’ll leave you to it.” Hugo turns back to his car.
“Did you find somewhere to board your dog?” I ask. Hugo pauses and shakes his head ruefully.
“I’m afraid not. Everywhere round here was full up. He spent last night in the car. But the weather’s getting colder, so . . .” He shrugs.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Yes. I haven’t quite decided what I’ll do. It’s not shaping up to be much of a Christmas.”
“Are you meant to be off on holiday?” I ask. He shakes his head.
“Nothing so glamorous, I’m afraid. I’m meant to be spending Christmas up the road with friends. But I’m afraid they’re not dog people. In fact, they’re fairly uncompromising on that point.”
“Some friends!” I bark. Though I suspect they and I are kindred spirits.
“Well, they’re not exactly friends,” he adds. “They’re sort of . . . in-laws.”
My heart sinks. Handsome Hugo is married. Such a waste.
He gives an embarrassed shrug. “Or at least, prospective in-laws,” he says. “So we’re trying to be accommodating.”
Prospective! Hugo is not yet lost! “We?” I ask.
“Malcolm and I.” He motions to the car and I bend down to see the Great Dane seated upright in the passenger seat like a bodyguard, his head nearly touching the ceiling. “We’re sort of . . . on trial, aren’t we, boy? Anyway, thanks for asking.” He starts to climb into the car.
“So you’ll be staying down the road?” I ask.
Hugo hesitates. “Yes. It’s only about five miles.”
“So you could . . . look in on him?” Often? I think.
“Absolutely. Every day. Twice a day if necessary!”
“Well, perhaps we could manage it,” I say tentatively.
Hugo looks hopeful. “Really? The other woman said you were completely full.”
“Oh well, yes,” I stammer. “The kennels are full. But . . . the house is free,” I add rashly.
He looks at me, amazed. “You’d let Malcolm stay in the house?”
I hesitate. “Maybe?” I say. As long as he doesn’t hog the sofa.
“He’s incredibly well behaved. And I’d pay extra!” Hugo says quickly. He runs a hand through his hair. “Frankly, I’d pay double.” He looks at me desperately. Double.
“I’m sure we can come to an arrangement,” I say with a smile.
* * *
I am a strong, independent woman, and soon I will be shacked up with six canines. Hugo goes off somewhere to fetch various dog accoutrements, promising to return with Malcolm later in the day. He is practically bursting with gratitude, and I am feeling extremely magnanimous. Not to mention pleased at the prospect of double the fees, and twice-daily visits from Hugo to break the tedium. Even if he is engaged.
I return the twins to their cage and fetch Peggy, Slab, and Hulk from their respective beds, marshaling them out to the paddock like recalcitrant teens. Peggy and Hulk immediately squat to do their business, but Slab manages only a brief, trembling leg-rise against a tree, before he turns and looks at me. “Come on, Slab. You can do this,” I say coaxingly. He watches me doubtfully with his less-cloudy eye. Perhaps if we walk a little, I think. We embark on a forced march around the perimeter of the paddock, Peggy eyeing me resentfully, Hulk picking her way daintily among the thistle and nettles, and Slab managing a sort of weak stagger, but with no result. Eventually I decide that Slab’s treatment can probably wait until later in the day. Surely it is best to give nature every opportunity to work its magic?
All the dogs seem relieved when I return them to their respective beds. And I am just settling down with Agatha Christie when I hear a truck pull up outside. I leap to the door in anticipation of my flat-screen delivery, and see an attractive woman in her late thirties, with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, hauling what appears to be a tall, trussed-up fir tree out of the back of a truck. She hoists it onto her shoulder like a scaffolder and approaches the house. I open the back door.
“Hello?” I ask. The woman gives me a cheery smile, then lifts the tree off her shoulder and thwacks the trunk down at my feet.
“Good morning! Is Jez around?”
“Sorry, I’m afraid she’s away.”
“No worries. I’ve brought her tree.” She thrusts the top of the tree toward me like an oversized baton.
“Um. Jez is away for the holidays,” I say tentatively. The woman frowns.
“Really? That’s odd. She never said.”
“It was kind of a last-minute thing,” I explain.
“Oh. No matter. Here’s her tree. You may as well have it. I cut it especially for her.”
Seriously? “Um. I wasn’t really . . .” I start to say but decide that it might seem churlish to refuse. “That’s very kind,” I say instead.
“I’m Stella. I own the pig farm down the road. Christmas trees are just a seasonal sideline,” she says with a grin. I introduce myself and Stella helpfully offers to bring the tree inside and set it up for me. Once again I nearly decline but don’t want to appear rude. Besides, the tree does smell delicious, and fresh-cut Christmas trees are one of the few items on my pro-Santa list. Stella directs me toward a kitchen cupboard, where I locate a small red tree stand high on a shelf. She fixes the trunk into the stand, then deposits the tree in the corner of the kitchen, slicing off the netting efficiently with a razor, and giving the tree another thwack and a hearty shake. “There,” she says, beaming.
“It’s . . . lovely,” I say politely. In fact, the tree is curiously misshapen, with the upper half tragically
sparse and the lower half bushy on one side, spindly on the other. The top four feet of the tree is completely bare and crooked to boot. Stella beams at it.
“Aren’t homegrown trees charming?” she says. I nod, unable to formulate a coherent response. The tree looks pathetic, and I suspect we both know it, but one glance at Stella suggests otherwise. From her place on the sofa, Peggy sits up and regards the tree with what appears to be disdain.
“Thank you so much,” I murmur.
“That should get you in the spirit!” Stella says.
I peer at her. Is she being ironic? Apparently not. “Yep.” I nod.
Stella crosses to the door and turns to me. “If you need any help, I’m just down the road. Hollyhox Farm. You can’t miss it.”
I hesitate. She’s a pig farmer: she is obviously experienced with animal husbandry. “Actually, there is something,” I say quickly, and Stella turns to me enquiringly.
* * *
Stella doesn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, she seems positively pleased to be of use. She deals with Slab’s bottom rocket with admirable efficiency. Just one quick lift of the tail, a small shove, and the entire business is over and done with in a flash. I am suitably gushing in my gratitude, Slab looks patently relieved, and the three of us part company the best of friends. A few minutes later I wave her off cheerily from the doorway and she gives a small toot of her horn as she drives off. Why are women so much more congenial than men?
After a shower, a blow dry, and a trawl through Jez’s wardrobe for something vaguely alluring to wear, I am ready for Hugo’s arrival later that afternoon. I don’t hear the car in the drive and when a light tap sounds at the kitchen door I look up to see an enormous canine face looming in the window. The dog’s pale white head is the size of a large dinner plate and completely obscures most of the window. His brown eyes sweep across the kitchen balefully, and if I didn’t know better, I would swear he was sizing up his new digs with something akin to regret. Off to one side I can just make out Hugo, who appears to be bent over, fiddling with an oversized wheelie bag at his side. I open the door and Hugo stands up.
“Hello! We’ve arrived,” he greets me cheerily.
“I can see that.” I turn to the dog, struggling to take in the sheer scale of him. Though I have already caught a glimpse of him folded into the seat of a sports car, standing Malcolm is a very different proposition. The top of his head comes almost to my shoulders, which puts his gaze roughly in line with my breasts. He is entirely pale white, like a massive canine version of a snowy owl, except his eyes are hazel and very slightly pink-rimmed. I look down at his legs, which seem to go on forever and end in meaty dog hocks, with paws the size of giant putting irons.
“And this is Malcolm,” says Hugo proudly.
Who is clearly not a normal size!
“Of course it is,” I say. Now I know exactly why Hugo’s prospective in-laws were not keen. And I am in complete accord with them on this point.
“Um . . . should we come in?” asks Hugo.
The idea of sharing the same living quarters with Malcolm seems suddenly outrageous. I am a fool for suggesting it in the first place. Nevertheless I open the door wide.
“Please do,” I suggest, as if it was my idea.
Hugo leads Malcolm into the kitchen and, behind me, Peggy sits up with alarm from her spot on the sofa, ears alert, hackles raised along her back. Malcolm turns to Peggy and I swear he dips his head to her: the dog practically genuflects. Or curtsies. Or whatever. Peggy relaxes slightly, still eyeing him, but clearly less concerned. She slowly lowers her laden belly back down onto the sofa with a harrumph. Pecking order has been established, and unsurprisingly, Peggy remains top dog. I turn to Hugo.
“Would you like a drink?”
“I’m frightfully sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t stay.”
“Oh?” What a pity.
“It’s just . . . I’m needed at some sort of neighbor’s drinks party.” He rolls his eyes. “Command performance, and all that.” He holds out a large dark blue wheelie bag, the sort that would clearly not fit in an overhead compartment on a plane. “Here are his things.” I look down at the bag.
“Your dog has his own luggage?” I ask. I cannot disguise the incredulity in my voice. Hugo gives an embarrassed laugh.
“Well, it’s just odds and sods, really. His bed, a blanket, a food bowl, a couple of leads. And his favorite toy. Oh, and some treats. Just in case.” His voice trails off.
Hugo is clearly a nutcase. A rich, handsome nutcase, but a nutcase all the same.
“In case of what?” I ask.
“He can be a little sensitive.”
Alarm bells begin to toll. “Sensitive how?”
“Oh, not to worry, nothing sinister. All rescue dogs are sensitive.”
“He’s a rescue?” I ask. The bells are tolling louder.
What sort of person would rescue a dog like this?
“And Malcolm especially so, because of his disability,” Hugo continues.
Disability? The bells are actually clanging now. I turn to appraise the dog, looking for clues I’m not seeing. No missing limbs or ears or tail.
Hugo carries on speaking, oblivious to my burgeoning sense of alarm. “I got him from Battersea. I practically had to sign my life away before they let me take him home.”
“Did you say disabled?” Hugo pauses and looks at me, his handsome face all innocence.
“I’m sorry, didn’t I mention? Malcolm is deaf.”
chapter
11
A deaf Dane. It is almost Shakespearean. After Hugo takes his leave, we are left with Malcolm’s hulking presence in our kitchen. It is difficult to know what to do with him. I deposit his enormous dog bed in the corner by the door and endeavor to coax him over to it by waving my arms like a lunatic, but perversely Malcolm positions himself squarely in the middle of the room. He doesn’t so much lie down as lower himself into a sphinxlike pose, regarding us with wary eyes.
Peggy looks over at me as if to say: Seriously?
It is inhibiting, to say the least. But I instruct Peggy to get over it and endeavor to follow my own advice. Between the Dane and Stella’s tree the kitchen has shrunk considerably. Before he left, Hugo turned to the tree and cocked his head a little sympathetically.
“Wouldn’t it benefit from . . .” He hesitated.
“Burning?” I suggested.
“I was going to say adornment.”
“We were going for the natural look.”
He frowned. “I’m not sure it’s working.”
* * *
I decide to ring Sian to let her know that I won’t be coming back to London until after the holiday. “She left you in charge of the kennels?” Sian asks. “That’s rich. What do your duties entail?”
“Not a lot, as far as I can see. The dogs don’t do much besides eat, sleep, crap, and lie around scratching.”
“Oh God. Don’t come home with fleas.”
“They don’t have fleas,” I say. Which is only a teeny-weeny bit untrue. “Anyway, it’s not like we’re cohabiting.” Also untrue.
“That’s good to know.”
I tell her about the deaf Dane and Handsome Hugo.
“Seriously? And he’s rich?”
“Apparently.”
“This could be the best thing that ever happened!”
“But he’s engaged.”
“Doesn’t matter. Sixty percent of all engagements come to nothing.”
“Really? Is that true?”
“Nah, I made it up. But if you include divorces down the line, I suspect that figure’s not far off. So you’d be doing him a favor. Think of all the legal fees he’ll save.”
“I’m not sure he’d see it that way. Besides, it sounds like his fiancée is out of my league. She’s some sort of royalty.”
“So are Beatrice and Eugenie.”
“Good point.” Sian has long maintained that Beatrice and Eugenie will single-handedly bring down the monarchy, simply through their choice of hats.
“So what does Handsome Hugo do for a living?”
“He told me he’s some sort of commodities trader.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“No idea. He mentioned something about aluminum futures.”
“Is that like . . . prospecting for tinfoil?”
“Who knows? But there appears to be money in it.”
“God, I knew I shouldn’t have retrained as a counselor.”
“But you like working in the caring professions.”
“Do I? Tinfoil sounds much more lucrative.”
“Not to mention malleable.”
“True. Though when it comes down to it, I prefer cling film.”
“How’s my favorite godson, anyway?”
“He’s recovering from gastric flu.”
“Oh wow, sorry.”
“Yep. He threw up four times last night. In the end I swapped his bedding for a plastic tablecloth and he didn’t even notice. I might use it all the time from now on. Saves me doing laundry.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t ring me.”
“I would have, but he threw up on my phone.”
“Nice.”
“We were out of rice, so I had to bury it in Rice Krispies. Worked a treat.”
“Very innovative. Be sure to post that tip on Mumsnet.”
“I already have.”
“And please tell me you threw out the cereal.”
* * *
Later that evening I am halfway through a bottle of Chilean chardonnay and have almost discovered the killer on the Orient Express, when Peggy rolls herself heavily off the sofa, walks over to the tree, and sniffs at the lower branches. She turns to me with a look that says she’s clearly underwhelmed. I get up from the sofa with a sigh and search the cupboard where I found the tree stand, but it is devoid of anything that could even vaguely be described as an ornament, much less a strand of lights. What I do find are lots of dog supplies: disposal bags (helpfully colored poo-brown), a dozen spare leads, a bag of old tennis balls, a carton of bone-shaped rawhide chews, and a box of squeaky toys.