by Natalie Cox
Jez pauses for a second.
“Well, I think it’s safe to say we’re over the first flush. Just trying to get to know each other now. You know, habits, foibles, irritants.”
“Does she know you’re phobic about moldy cheese?”
“Not yet. I’m waiting for the right moment.”
“And have you shown her your toes?”
“What’s wrong with my toes?”
“Just show her.”
“Thanks.”
“No worries. What’s family for?”
“I’ll be sure to return the favor when Mr. Right comes along.”
“Who will no doubt turn out to be Mr. Wrong.”
“Don’t be such a pessimist.”
“Besides,” I say. “Who needs men when you have mutts?”
Jez laughs. “Too true,” she agrees.
* * *
After we hang up, I decide that I am only half in jest. Pickle and Pepper notwithstanding, I have to admit that dogs make perfectly pleasant housemates. They are loyal, companionable, reasonably well behaved, and reassuringly predictable. Unlike men, they respond well to prompting, rather than resenting you for it. And they are streets ahead when it comes to personal grooming and eating everything put in front of them without complaint. Admittedly they are rubbish at housework, but then, so is every man I’ve ever known. And Malcolm aside, dogs are better listeners than men, by far. So apart from the obvious (sex, which is clearly a nonstarter) dogs outperform men in virtually every realm of daily life. Why has it taken me so long to discover this?
But today I am worried about Peggy, who is suddenly so fat she can barely waddle over to her water bowl without assistance, her belly swaying like an overloaded lorry. She drinks long and hard, as if it is her last drink ever, as if water is the key to salvation and the afterlife, then collapses heavily on her side with a grunt. In the last twenty-four hours she has abandoned the sofa (which I can see has taken on Everest-like proportions), so I made up a bed for her out of old blankets and cushions in the corner opposite from the others (she likes her privacy.) But she remains remarkably tolerant of Malcolm, who follows her everywhere, like a worried, ineffectual, oversized bodyguard.
I reach over and gently place a hand on her stomach: it is taut and lumpy, with sharply jutting bits that I imagine are tiny paws and muzzles and haunches and, eerily, every now and then something shifts beneath her skin. She locks her eyes on mine with an expression of quiet desperation, one that suggests she would prefer to give the whole thing a miss, if at all possible. I place a hand on her head in a gesture of female solidarity. She has every right to be terrified, frankly. I know I would be. Birthing one baby is hard enough, but several in one go? No one should have to endure that.
I scour the bookshelves to see if there is any sort of advice about how to make her more comfortable, to no avail. Suddenly, rashly, I decide to ring Cal.
He picks up on the sixth ring, and if it is possible to sound irritated in only two syllables, he succeeds. I explain that I am ringing about Peggy and say that she really does look worryingly large.
“She’s not due for almost a fortnight,” he says.
“What happens if she’s early?”
Cal sighs. “Canine gestation isn’t like human’s. You can generally set your watch by it.”
“But she seems so . . . lethargic.”
“That’s because she’s lazy at the best of times.”
“But what if something’s wrong?”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know . . . maybe she has preeclampsia!”
“I doubt it.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Does she have tremors?”
“No.”
“Can she walk?”
“Yes.”
“Then she doesn’t have preeclampsia.”
“Oh.”
“Look, I don’t mean to be rude but . . . I’m actually in the middle of something.”
“Sorry.”
What sort of something? I wonder as I hang up. Suddenly my mind flies to the possibilities: Perhaps he and Gerry are sharing a lazy postcoital afternoon? In which case he never should have answered his phone! Though perhaps it’s mandatory in the caring professions? This isn’t a line of thought I care to dwell on, really. Luckily, Valko is due to come by any minute to exercise the twins. Who knew that I would so look forward to visits from a depressed Bulgarian migrant worker?
But Valko is uncharacteristically upbeat when he arrives a few minutes later. I see that he is freshly shaved and wears a shirt that is marginally less frayed than his others. “You’re looking tidy today, Valko,” I say. He blinks a little self-consciously.
“Tidy. Is good, yes?”
I nod. “Have you got plans later?”
“Oh. No. Just . . . I go to see Stella. For . . . small time.” He shrugs in an effort at nonchalance.
“Of course.”
“To help with pigs. Or . . . some things.”
“Absolutely. Some things. Why not?”
We take the twins for a walk and I tell him about the white van. Valko stops and frowns. “This not good, I think.”
“It was probably just someone trying their luck.”
“But . . . you are alone. In house.”
“I’m not alone. I have seven dogs to protect me.”
He shakes his head. “You need gun, I think. Gun is good for protect.”
“Valko, I’m not going to use a gun!”
“No need to use. Just . . . have gun is good.”
“Where would I even get a gun, anyway?”
“To get gun is not difficult,” he says. “I maybe know someone.”
“What exactly did you do back in Bulgaria?” I ask suspiciously.
“Some things.”
“Some things with guns?”
He shrugs. “Some things with guns. Some things with no guns.” He says this casually, like he is ordering pizza: one with cheese and one without.
“I think I’ll stick with dogs,” I say, eyeing him.
He grunts. “Guns is better.”
* * *
Late that evening I’m sacked out on the sofa, reading the newspaper, when I hear a noise outside. Malcolm and I both sit up and he suddenly swings his head from the maternity corner toward the door, his large brown eyes blinking with startled anticipation. Has the white van returned? But in the next instant Hugo’s face appears blurrily through the window, peering in. Through the glass I can see that he is wearing a mustard-colored scarf wrapped around his neck so many times that it looks as if he’s being strangled by a woolly anaconda. When I open the door, he gives a little wave. “Hello,” he says.
“Hi. Um . . . What are you doing here so late?” I ask.
He sways slightly, one hand shooting out to grip the door frame.
“Hugo, are you drunk?”
He squints at me. “Fractionally.”
“You didn’t drive, did you? Where’s your car?”
“Actually, I rode,” he says with a hint of pride.
“Rode what?” I say with alarm, scanning the yard for a horse.
“That. I found it in the barn.” He points toward an old bike leaning against the kennels. Then he frowns. “But it took longer than I thought. I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.” He turns and stares at the road. “And I had no idea it was so cold out,” he mutters.
“You’d better come in.”
I lead him inside and put the kettle on. Hugo walks over to where Malcolm is guarding Peggy and bends down to fondle him for a moment. “Hello, old boy,” he says. “Just needed a little canine sustenance, didn’t I?” He straightens and walks over to the sofa, collapsing onto it while I set about making coffee.
“What happened?” I ask. “Where’s Constance?”
>
“Constance is playing bridge with her family. Nothing has happened. Nothing ever happens at Constance’s house, I’ve discovered. It is all a seamless occurrence of the expected.”
“So why aren’t you with them?”
“I’m on furlough.” He grins. “Self-appointed.”
“Meaning she doesn’t know you’re here?”
He sucks in air. “I suspect not,” he says.
“Maybe you should ring her.”
He shakes his head. “Definitely not.”
“She might be worried.”
“The thing is . . . Constance doesn’t really do worry. She does anger.”
“Hugo, what are you doing here?”
He looks perplexed and a little bit wounded.
“I mean, why have you come?”
He frowns. “To see you, of course. And Malcolm.” His eyes roam around the kitchen. “I like coming here. It’s warm. And comfortable. And . . . cozy.” He looks at me. “Life is easy here. You’re easy.”
I shake my head. “Not a compliment.”
“In contrast with Constance. Who is decidedly not easy. Who is decidedly . . . complicated.”
“People are complicated, Hugo.”
“But Constance requires so much . . . fealty. It can be exhausting. You’ve no idea. I’m not sure I can summon all the energy required to meet her standards.”
“But, Hugo, you’re engaged.”
He frowns. “Yes. I know. That is a—a troubling detail.”
“Do you love her, Hugo?”
He hesitates, his eyes glazing slightly. “That is a trick question,” he says slowly.
“Call me old-fashioned, but people who marry should be in love.”
He exhales. “I esteem her,” he says.
“That’s not exactly truly, madly, deeply, is it?”
“I deeply esteem her.”
“Look, have you considered the possibility that this engagement might be a mistake?”
He sinks back into the sofa despairingly. “How difficult can it be to get married and live happily ever after?”
“Quite difficult, actually.”
“Other people seem to manage.”
“I think you’ll find that a lot of people fail.”
“Well, I appear to be a serial failure.”
“No, you’re not.”
He turns to me. “Would you marry me?”
“No.”
“I rest my case.” He slaps his hand on the sofa.
I hand him a mug of coffee. “Here. Drink this.”
Hugo takes a sip. He looks down at the mug. “And you make fantastic coffee. You really do have to marry me.”
I sit down next to him on the sofa. “Does Constance love you?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Has she told you?”
“I asked her once. She said, Of course.”
“Huh.”
He takes another drink of coffee and sighs. “I’m sorry. I’ve no right to impose myself on you like this.”
“It’s OK. You’re paying double.” I grin at him.
“Ah yes. I nearly forgot.”
“If it’s any consolation, my love life is worse than yours. My ex-boyfriend cheated on me with his personal trainer.”
Hugo makes a face. “How thoroughly unsporting.”
“Anyway, I’ve decided dogs make perfectly good life partners.”
“Really?” He looks at me askance.
“No. But they’ll have to do until something better comes along. Something without a tail, preferably.” He shakes his head.
“I don’t understand,” he says. “You’re attractive. And clever. And funny. And kind. Any man would be lucky to have you.” He looks at me intently and I realize all at once that it could be so easy. Because he, too, is kind. And clever. And handsome. And rich! “Perhaps we’re being idiots,” he says.
“I’m not sure I follow,” I say cautiously.
But I know perfectly well what he means.
In the next instant Hugo leans forward and kisses me, and even as sirens start to blare in one half of my brain, the other half has leaped right up on that wagon, happy to go along for the ride. We kiss for a moment and, as we do, the computer in my brain is rapidly analyzing the metrics of the encounter (about a five on a scale of one to ten, which is disappointing, though his aftershave smells absolutely divine, so maybe a six) but the sirens grow more insistent and suddenly I realize that they’re competing with a noise from outside my brain. It takes an instant before I recognize the sound of someone banging on the back door, and another instant before I realize that Hugo and I are not alone—that someone is standing just outside, staring directly in at us through the glass.
Someone with absurdly blue eyes.
Awkward.
I practically fling myself across the room to open the door. Outside, Bovine Cal stands there, stony-faced.
“I thought I’d better check on Peggy,” he informs me coldly.
Oh. Crap. “Thanks,” I say. I open the door wide and he steps into the room.
“I’ve been tied up in clinic with an emergency,” he says tersely. “Or I would have come earlier.” He turns toward Hugo, who jumps to his feet and steps forward to greet him. Cal gives the briefest of nods and sidesteps him, crossing to where Peggy lies in the corner, panting. He squats down and splays both hands across her abdomen, while Malcolm, Hugo, and I look on. Cal palpates Peggy for a moment, then pulls a stethoscope out of his coat pocket and listens to her heart for a minute. Eventually he rises, turning to us.
“She’s fine,” he says. “Keep her quiet and give her plenty of water.”
“OK.”
For an instant, there’s an uncomfortable moment of silence.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he says then, flinging the words like stones.
And he does.
* * *
After he has gone, I give Hugo a ride home in the Škoda. Neither of us says a word about the kiss, which hovers around us like a bad smell. When Hugo gets out of the car he gives me a sheepish little wave—a wave that says he’s feeling like an arse. But I am no better; I had no business kissing Hugo, and no business flirting with Cal in the pub. The thing about infidelity is that it preys on the weak, I decide on the way home. Lionel was one of the weak. I am not.
I am a strong, independent woman.
Or at least I used to be.
chapter
16
I wake the next morning feeling sheepish. Last night was not my finest hour. Though a part of me can’t help wondering why Cal was so angry? Perhaps he was offended on Constance’s behalf. Or perhaps he simply thinks I have no business meddling with other people’s engagements. If so, then he is right. Today will have to be a day for making amends. It is the eve of Christmas Eve and, for once in my life, I will throw myself into the holiday spirit. I will ring Gerry to say thank you for the other evening (and to make up for flirting with Cal); I will apologize to Hugo for unwittingly leading him astray; I will be kind and supportive to Valko—and I will keep Peggy well watered.
I will even groom Judd.
Obeying my own call to action, I go to Jez’s wardrobe and ferret around for something festive to wear. Apparently everyone on the planet (apart from me) owns a Christmas jumper, so it is simply a case of finding where she hides it. I rummage through all her drawers and all her hanging clothes to no avail. Perhaps she has taken it with her? I am on the verge of settling for a Kelly green cardigan when I spy a large plastic box on the floor at the back of her wardrobe. I drag it out and voilà! It is basically a dressing-up box for grown-ups. Inside I find silky purple Arabian nights’ trousers with sparkly gold trim, thigh-high pale pink vinyl boots, a leopard-print catsuit (Meow!), an enormous shaggy, dirty-white onesie (Not sure what look she’s goin
g for with this one? Yeti?), a floor-length, hooded dark brown robe (Jedi? Franciscan monk?), and a minuscule, flouncy black minidress with ruffles and gold tassel (Ooh la la! French maid? Or maybe sexy pirate?). As I rummage through the stack I feel as if I’m seeing an entirely different side of Jez. Life in the country is clearly more adventurous than I’d realized. I am just about to settle on the catsuit (The dogs will love it!) when I pluck a folded red knitted sweater from the bottom of the box.
I hold it up and laugh out loud.
Dear Lord, I cannot possibly wear this!
It is indeed a Christmas jumper. But instead of a reindeer or Santa emblazoned across the chest, there are two perfectly round plum puddings, each placed strategically over one breast, complete with dripping icing and cherry nipples. The effect is both seasonally jaunty and surprisingly lewd. I pull the jumper on and turn to face the mirror. My plum puddings stare back at me, cherry nipples winking. It is almost certainly an optical illusion, but my breasts appear to have gone up a cup size or two. I turn to the side, admiring my more buxom profile. The sweater does feel festive. And it is surprisingly soft and warm. Besides, who apart from the dogs will see me?
* * *
Later that morning, Sian rings. “How’s the mutt house?” She asks.
I sigh. My plum puddings and I are squeezed on the sofa between Hulk, Slab, and Judd, who as soon as Peggy vacated, decided that dog beds were passé. When I came down this morning, Hulk and Judd were cozied up together at one end of the sofa, sniffing each other’s hindquarters, while Slab stood quivering beside it, waiting to be lifted on.
“Actually, I think the house might be starting to smell.”
“So are you now, probably. Is the boiler still out?”
“Yep. The boiler guy appears to have fled to warmer climates.”
“How’s the Dishy Danish?” Sian has dubbed Hugo the Dishy Danish, even though I have pointed out to her on more than one occasion that he is a) not Danish, and b) well, there is no b actually, because he is quite dishy. I relate the previous night’s events.
“So what’s the problem? It sounds like his girlfriend’s a miserable cow.”