by Natalie Cox
They smell. Like dogs. Which is also not as bad as it seems. It’s kind of like guy-smell: with the right guy, you don’t really mind. And dogs are no different from men. In all sorts of ways.
They are crazily devoted to us. In fact, men should take a leaf from their book.
They prize constancy above all else and will return it in kind. (Perhaps one more leaf for the guys needed here.)
They are not afraid to show appreciation. (Definitely a third leaf needed: indeed, all men should be given tails, then sent to wagging classes.)
A puppy licking your chin is better than therapy. It is almost better than sex. (It actually is better than sex on a bad day. Or bad sex.)
In most cases, dogs make better people than people do.
So you might have worked out that Rudy and I are now a team. We’ve got each other’s backs, even though his puppy back is still tiny. In fact, five of the litter have already been spoken for. Valko and Stella have each offered to take one (or rather, a pair, which they intend to raise together on the farm, where Valko has more or less moved in), Dibber wants another, and Constable Brian wants a fourth. So that only leaves three to find homes for.
This morning I have been on the phone negotiating with my insufferable boss, Carl. After considerable time, and not a little posturing on my part (I basically told him I would quit), he has finally agreed to keep me on the Bromley Council project as a consultant, working from Devon. “Look at the bright side,” I tell him. “You’ll save on desk space. Not to mention loo roll,” I add cheekily. He has hived off a distinct bit of data architecture for me to do and I have agreed to come to London once a fortnight for a progress review, and we’ll see how it goes.
My flat in Nunhead is currently under construction, which is taking rather longer than anyone anticipated; as it turns out the internal walls and pipes were insulated with asbestos, which is now being painstakingly excised from the entire building. The landlords anticipate that it will be ready later this spring, and the insurance has coughed up a hefty check to cover my interim lodging. Hooray!
In the meantime, Jez has postponed her return to the UK for the near future. She and Eloise are still happily canoodling in the tundra and working on a long-term plan. It is not yet clear which one of them will relocate, but they have basically agreed that Viber is no longer a solution if they wish to remain together as a couple. So for now I remain the sole operator of Cozy Canine Cottages, with Slab at my side as overseer and right-hand man. And Peggy reigning over us all.
Except for Cal, who has taken to staying over most nights. Gradually, we are peeling back the layers, exposing a little bit more of ourselves to each other by day—and different bits at night. We have agreed that truth will be our baseline, and with it we have begun the slow but steady construction of trust, brick by measured brick: a process that is at once both terrifying and exhilarating. We are both old enough, and experienced enough, to want our relationship to be built on a rock-solid foundation. No shortcuts will be taken. No asbestos will be used.
And Devon grows on me by the day. I have begun to cherish my early morning walk with the twins. This morning we crunched across frozen fields, slid down muddy slopes, waded through streams, and clambered across fallen logs studded with mossy barnacles. At one point I stood amidst a small grove of Scots pines and just inhaled the stillness. In the space of only a few weeks, breathing has indeed become one of my favorite pastimes.
Who would have guessed?
Sian and Owen came to visit last weekend and I took them for a quick spin in the sulky, which they loved. Afterward Cal cooked us coq au vin, rolling up his sleeves and strapping on a pink pinny that I dug out of a kitchen drawer, while Owen constructed an elaborate fort in the corner out of cushions, and Sian and I quaffed red wine at the table. Over dinner she grilled Cal shamelessly about his past and I learned a thing or two. But I could tell from the glimmer in her gaze that she approved. Afterward, when we were finally alone, she leaned back in her chair and flashed me a satisfied grin, as if her work was done.
“Naught to sixty,” she proclaimed.
I gave her a quizzical look.
“Lionel being naught,” she added.
* * *
This afternoon Cal has gone to his surgery and I have promised Jez I will sort out her invoicing. I have just installed myself at the kitchen table with a stack of correspondence and a liter of coffee, when I hear a car in the drive. I glance out the window to see a familiar dark green Ferrari pull up and in spite of the fact that it is mid-January, the top is down. Hugo wears the giant gold anaconda scarf, and next to him, ramrod straight, sits Malcolm, whose hulking presence Peggy and I have genuinely missed these past few weeks. Malcolm leaps bodily out of the front seat before the engine is even quiet, and within an instant his enormous hazel eyes are peering in at me anxiously through the kitchen door. When I open it, he practically assaults me with affection, trying to scale my body with his ungainly limbs. When he is finished, he hurls himself across the room to where Peggy and the pups are nursing, and sprawls in front of her, like an adoring suitor. Peggy looks pleased in spite of herself, giving a little wag of her tail.
“I had to come,” says Hugo with a grin, walking toward the door. “He’s been pining terribly.”
“Peggy, too, though she refuses to show it.”
I pour him a coffee and Hugo sinks down onto the sofa with a sigh. “I’ve missed this kitchen,” he says, looking around.
“You’re not going to tell me I’m easy again, are you?”
He appraises me with narrow eyes. “I suspect you’re rather more awkward than you appear,” he says.
“I certainly hope so.”
“How’s the local vet?”
“Very local indeed,” I say with a grin.
“Bravo.”
“And Constance?”
“Constance appears to have gone into purdah. But knowing her, she’ll be fine.” He takes a sip of coffee. “In actual fact, Malcolm and I spent last weekend in Windsor,” he says slyly.
Bonnie!
“And?”
“I wouldn’t want to count my chickens. But the early signs are encouraging. Her divorce to the tuba player comes through in a few weeks’ time. And I’ve promised her a short break somewhere fabulous to celebrate.”
“How lovely.”
“I rather thought I’d bring her here,” he adds nonchalantly.
“You want to stay here?” I gape at him.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve booked a country hotel nearby. But I was hoping you’d have Malcolm,” he says. Relief washes over me.
“I could be persuaded,” I say. “For double the fees.”
* * *
Hugo and Malcolm settle in for the afternoon, as if they never left, and at half past five I hear the familiar rumble of the Volvo outside. Hugo looks up from where he’s reading the newspaper. “That would be your knight in shining armor,” he says.
“Except I’m not a princess.”
He tilts his head at me. “Clearly not,” he agrees.
I glance toward the door to see Cal peering in at us with his unreasonably blue eyes. He lets himself in and Hugo jumps to his feet. I have to admit, I’m a little uncertain how Cal will react to Hugo’s presence, given the history of our little threesome.
“Hello,” says Cal, sweeping us both up with his gaze.
“Hope you don’t mind me dropping in,” says Hugo nervously.
“Not at all,” says Cal. “Are you staying for supper?” He lifts up a bag of groceries he is carrying. Hugo glances over at me quickly and I shrug.
“That would depend on who’s cooking,” Hugo says cautiously.
“Never trust a woman to do a man’s job,” says Cal, moving to the counter and starting to unpack the food.
I smile. Practically perfect in ever
y way.
acknowledgments
This book would not have been written without the steadying hand of Cordelia Sands, who probably deserves a writing credit but will have to content herself with lashings of gratitude and a hefty gift voucher. Huge thanks as well to my fabulous UK agents Felicity Rubinstein, Juliet Mahony, and Francesca Davies at Lutyens & Rubinstein, and the terrific team at Inkwell in New York: Kim Witherspoon, David Forrer, and Jessica Mileo. I’m also indebted to the supremely talented editorial teams on both sides of the Atlantic who helped guide the dogs home: Clare Hey and Olivia Barber at Orion in the UK, and Margo Lipschultz and Helen Richard at G. P. Putnam’s Sons in the US.
Finally, as ever, big thanks to the faithful squad at home: Peter, Theo, Cody, Maddy, and Megan.
about the author
Natalie Cox is a lifelong fan of romantic comedy, and decided to write her own when she finally ran out of stuff to read. She is also a big fan of dogs, and wrote this book with an ancient chocolate labrador panting by her side. Together, they placed second in the Dog-And-Owner-Most-Alike Competition at their local county show, and no doubt would have taken home the trophy if they'd worn matching collars. Sadly, the day she received the publication offer for this book, Natalie's canine muse went to that great dog park in the sky. She divides her time between the Brecon Beacons in Wales and London.
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