Must Be Love

by Cathy Woodman

‘I’m being serious, Maz. I haven’t seen you properly for days.’ He nuzzles the side of my neck, the contact tampering with the rhythm of my heart. ‘I don’t want you and the baby living here while I’m rattling around in the Barn.’

  ‘Oh, Alex, I’m not sure. I’ve rushed in before and it didn’t work out.’

  I’m thinking of Mike. Charismatic and sexy, charming and successful, I thought we’d be together for ever. I joined his practice in London as an assistant and moved in with him, and we were happy until he started walking the dog as a favour to his ex-wife – they were given joint custody, but the dog lived with her. I admired his honesty, but it turned out he’d omitted to mention his ex-wife was enjoying these excursions with him, and to cut a long story short, he realised he was still in love with her.

  ‘You’ve mentioned that before,’ Alex says impatiently. ‘And you’ve also told me I’m not a bit like your exes, so you can’t use that as an excuse.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know …’

  The water comes to the boil and the kettle expels a breath of steam before switching itself off. My emotions continue to bubble up. I don’t know where they’re coming from. I don’t know what’s happening to me.

  ‘Maz, I’m beginning to wonder if you’ve gone off me,’ Alex says quietly.

  ‘It isn’t that,’ I say hastily.

  ‘You’ll be able to keep an eye on me, make sure I don’t go astray,’ he says, then, as a tiny pulse starts to throb at my temple at the thought of him with another woman, he goes on, ‘I shouldn’t have said that. I take it back.’

  He’s right. It isn’t something to joke about.

  ‘Sharing a home must be greener than living separately in two. Can’t I press you on your environmental credentials?’ he says.

  ‘You can press me on anything you like,’ I murmur, feeling the length of his body against mine.

  ‘What about the economic argument? You could let your locum use this place instead of paying for B&B up at Stewart’s.’

  ‘What about your father?’

  ‘What about him? You won’t be living with him. He’s irrelevant.’

  ‘Hardly,’ I say. Sophia and I might have settled our differences to a point, but I can’t imagine having that kind of conversation with Old Fox-Gifford. He’s disowned our baby and made it clear he doesn’t want anything to do with me.

  ‘It’s my home,’ Alex says.

  ‘Your parents are right next door. I’d have to see your father every day.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have to speak to him.’

  It’s no good, I think. He isn’t winning me round on this one. I bite my lip, fighting the pain in my chest as the wave of joy that I feel because he’s asked me to move in with him collides with a wall of regret. Where’s the love and romance? The hearts and flowers?

  I clutch at his gilet, and he leans down and kisses my forehead, his voice gruff when he says, ‘I know it hasn’t been very long, but I have my heart set on you, Maz. All I want is for us to be together.’

  ‘And it’s what I want too.’ I press my lips to his, relief, excitement and anticipation welling up inside me. So what if his father hates me? So what if he’s rejected our baby, his own grandchild? It isn’t anything to do with him. This is between me and Alex, and it’s more proof of how much we mean to each other, how committed we are to making our relationship work.

  ‘I’ll be able to see you every day,’ Alex says, smiling. ‘It’ll be great.’ He slides his hands over my buttocks and gives them a fond squeeze. ‘I can make sure you aren’t overdoing it – with the baby.’

  The baby again. My throat tightens with apprehension. Is he asking me just because of the baby? Would he ask me if I wasn’t pregnant?

  ‘Alex, would you still be asking me to move in with you if there was no baby?’

  Alex gazes at me for a moment, his brow furrowed, his expression one of hurt, and I realise I’ve said the wrong thing. I’ve misjudged him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m just being paranoid.’ I reach up and touch his face, let my fingers trace the curve of his cheek, feeling the muscle underneath tighten then relax. ‘When can I move in? If you still want me to …’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Confessions

  ‘Emma isn’t in today and Shannon’s on the late shift. Why oh why did I let Izzy go for a dress-fitting today?’ I grumble, as Drew turns up in Kennels with a small wheat-coloured terrier spinning circles on the end of a short lead. Eyes bulging, it rakes at its face, trying to remove the canvas muzzle.

  ‘Because you wanted me to yourself.’ Drew hops to one side as the dog makes to attack his ankle.

  ‘Very funny,’ I say dryly. I wish Emma was in – I can’t wait to tell her my news. ‘Who’s this, Drew?’ I go on, forcing myself to concentrate on something other than the subject of moving in with Alex.

  ‘This is Sandy Balls,’ Drew says.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Really,’ Drew goes on. ‘I wish Frances had warned me – I couldn’t keep a straight face.’

  ‘I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure of meeting him before,’ I say, eyeing the dog from a safe distance.

  ‘Mr Balls doesn’t stick with one practice for very long. This dog’s an embarrassment to him. He’s got no control over him at all.’ Drew smiles ruefully. ‘I don’t think he even likes him.’

  ‘What’s he in for?’ I wrinkle my nose at the stench that emanates from the general direction of the dog. ‘Actually, I can guess. A dental.’

  ‘Mr Balls has been putting it off for a long time. When I asked him if he ever looked in Sandy’s mouth, he said I must be having a laugh.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘let’s get on with it.’

  Half an hour later and the dog is lying on the prep bench on his side, anaesthetised, his head on a rack over the sink. Drew, masked and gloved, opens the dental drawer and selects the instruments he needs while I keep watch on the dog’s breathing.

  ‘Did you know Shannon has a place at college for September?’ I begin, but Drew ignores me.

  ‘Number one, the first of many.’ Drew holds up a bloody molar, then drops it beside the kidney dish I’ve put there for the purpose. He rinses the dog’s mouth with the attachment on the tap, flooding the bench.

  ‘Careful, Drew. You’re making a mess.’

  ‘You sound just like Izzy.’ He smiles as I grab some paper towel to mop up.

  ‘I’d hate Shannon to throw it all away on some crazy urge to see the world.’ I watch the muscles in Drew’s forearm tense as he works on the next extraction, noting that getting him to admit anything is very much like pulling teeth.

  ‘Seeing the world makes you appreciate what you have back home.’ Drew wipes his forceps, and gazes at me over the top of his mask.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘I expect you’re missing her. Your fiancée.’

  Drew doesn’t try to deny it.

  ‘Shannon still believes you’re unattached,’ I go on.

  ‘I know it seems a bit shonky—’

  ‘You’ll have to translate,’ I cut in.

  ‘Shonky, underhand. People are more open, friendlier, if they think you’re single and travelling alone,’ Drew says.

  I can understand that, but I don’t see how you can make real, lasting friendships when you’re hiding part of yourself. It’s like you’re being unfaithful twice over.

  Drew polishes the few teeth Sandy has left, the pleasant minty scent of prophy paste replacing the smell of pus and rotting gum.

  ‘She stayed at home with the littlie,’ he says eventually. ‘We’ve got a three-year-old, Bianca.’

  ‘How could you?’ I can’t help myself. All I can think of is that this fiancée of his must be a complete doormat. ‘I can’t think of many women – any women – who’d stand for that.’

  ‘Janice was supposed to fly out with Bianca to join me part-way through the year, but her mother had a heart attack and ended up in hospital. She said she couldn’t leave her.’

  I s
tare at him. Frances was right about Drew: he was too good to be true. I’m also surprised that he doesn’t want to talk about his child, but perhaps, like me, he didn’t choose to become a parent.

  ‘Stop looking at me like that, Maz,’ he says. ‘I’ll put Shannon out of her misery, I promise.’

  ‘You’d better,’ I say, but confessing he has not only a fiancée but a child too won’t put her out of her misery, will it? It’ll make it worse.

  I drop Sandy’s teeth into dilute hydrogen peroxide (which is normally Izzy’s job), where they fizz and turn white, before putting them in a pot to show Sandy’s owner. It occurs to me that this is what it’ll be like when Izzy’s away on honeymoon, and I wonder how we’ll cope.

  I’m transferring Sandy to a cage to sleep off the anaesthetic when Shannon walks in with Seven in her arms. He’s six or seven weeks old now, a big ball of fluff.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ Emma and I made it practice policy not to allow staff pets at work, because we’ve both been to practices where the vets’ dogs outnumbered the patients.

  ‘Daisy attacked him – she’s drawn blood.’ Shannon runs her fingers through his fur on his neck, trying to show me where. She’s almost in tears, and for once I’m grateful to Drew for coming over and resting a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Let’s have a look at him.’ I take him from her, at which he licks my nose and tiddles down my apron.

  Drew hangs on to him while I examine the wound, a nasty tear through the skin, which is already weeping. I clean it up and put Seven straight on to antibiotics.

  ‘He’s a real little smiler,’ Drew says.

  ‘Are you going to fix his harelip, Maz?’ Shannon asks.

  ‘I’ll only do it if it causes him a problem,’ I say, as Seven jumps up and hits Drew in the face. ‘Seven doesn’t care what he looks like.’

  ‘I do, though.’ Drew holds his hand over his eye.

  ‘Wait there.’ Shannon disappears, half laughing, half commiserating, returning with a bag of frozen peas.

  ‘Hey, they’re mine,’ I say.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. I’ll buy you some more.’ Shannon grabs Drew’s wrist and presses the bag to his eye, and I notice how he gives in, and how Shannon’s gaze is fixed on his face, and how she stretches her fingers beyond the edge of the bag to stroke his cheek. ‘Poor Seven,’ she says softly, ‘it wasn’t his fault.’

  ‘How did you work that one out?’ Drew says. ‘What about poor old me?’

  ‘It’s just a bruise,’ says Shannon. ‘I could kiss it better for you.’

  Taking hold of Seven, who’s apparently contemplating a suicidal leap from the bench, I clear my throat.

  ‘Er, no, Shannon. It wouldn’t be appropriate,’ Drew says, shifting from one foot to the other, and I think, with some relief for the future of Otter House because Shannon’s going to make a great vet nurse, I can recognise cold feet when I see them.

  Seven stays in the practice overnight, to give him a chance to get over his traumas. I let him stay with me in a cage in the flat, thinking that it’s lucky for Seven that I haven’t moved into the Barn with Alex yet. The next morning, when I let him out, he tiddles on the carpet, runs away with my socks and hurls himself onto my lap, his front paws landing in my cereal.

  ‘You don’t look quite so cute now,’ I tell him as I wipe his feet with kitchen towel and pick cornflakes out of his hair, ‘and you smell.’ It’s the damp earth and gravy scent I always associate with young puppies.

  I take him downstairs with me, where he gives chase to Ginge and Tripod. Ginge hisses at him, taking him by surprise and giving Tripod time to swipe him across his nose. Seven sits down on his bottom and whimpers.

  ‘You big baby,’ I tell him. ‘That’ll teach you not to run after cats. They have sharp edges.’

  I let him have a run in the garden, then shut him in one of the cages in Kennels with his breakfast and instructions for Shannon to look after him during the day.

  ‘You’re not to spend all day with him, though,’ I warn her, as she ties a fresh white plastic apron behind her back. ‘And you’re to take him home tonight.’

  ‘All right, Maz.’ She smiles. Her hair is damp, her eyes bright, her lips lightly glossed. She doesn’t look like someone whose boyfriend’s let her down, and I fear that Drew hasn’t yet done the right thing.

  ‘Where’s Drew?’

  ‘He’s in the staffroom, sampling Frances’s cakes.’

  ‘At this time of the morning?’

  ‘She says we’re to taste them all, and score them from one to ten. She’s testing recipes for the Country Show.’

  Which must be at the end of this month, I think, and I smile to myself. I have an idea.

  ‘It’s going to be chutneys tomorrow,’ Shannon goes on.

  I find Drew in the staffroom, hamster-cheeked with Victoria sponge.

  ‘Shannon said I’d find you here,’ I say. ‘I wanted to speak to you about the Country Show. It’s one of Talyton’s institutions, a real traditional day out. There are falconry displays, heavy horses, fancy chickens –’

  ‘I’d rather be surfing,’ Drew mumbles through crumbs.

  ‘There’s scrumpy-tasting,’ I go on.

  ‘That sounds more interesting.’

  ‘Well, you’ll be able to enjoy all of that after you’ve judged the Best Pet in Show.’

  Luckily, he’s taken another huge mouthful of cake, so he isn’t in a position to argue.

  ‘Unfortunately, Emma and I have other commitments that day, so it’s going to be up to you to represent the Otter House Vets. It’s a great honour. The chance of a lifetime. You get a free lunch too.’

  ‘What did you say I have to do in return?’ Drew says.

  ‘Pick a winner. Simple as that.’

  ‘All right then. I’m up for it.’

  ‘Great,’ I say, trying not to sound too delighted. I was judge with Old Fox-Gifford last year. Never again. I change the subject. ‘Why haven’t you spoken to Shannon yet?’

  Drew points to his mouth and chews a few more times.

  ‘Shall I tell her?’

  ‘Leave it with me, Maz. It’s my mess and I’ll deal with it.’ Drew takes another slice of cake. There are seven sponges, decorated with different kinds of sugar and oozing jam, on the worktop by the sink, and he seems to have made inroads into every one. Which is just typical of a man, I muse crossly: having his cake and eating it.

  ‘Aren’t you going to try some? Number three’s the best, but Frances wants a second opinion.’ Drew grins. ‘Izzy won’t have any because she’s worried about how she’ll get into her wedding dress.’

  ‘Hey, less of that,’ Izzy says, joining us. ‘Your first one’s here, Drew. It’s a cat, found collapsed in the garden this morning. Maz, will you please ring those blood results through to Mr Dixon – he’s just called for the tenth time in two days,’ she adds before leaving the room on Drew’s tail.

  I take a piece of one of Frances’s cakes and sit down with the phone and the lab report to make the call. Mr Dixon is out, and I’m making tentative conversation with my bump when Emma walks in.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ I say, looking up.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, rather coolly. ‘It’s only been a few days.’

  ‘I know.’

  I want to explain that it was a light-hearted, throw-away comment that wasn’t meant to be taken literally, but Emma goes on, ‘How did your scan go the other day?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. Except you were right about the gel – it was freezing.’

  There’s an awkward silence, my fault for reminding her of her loss, and I think now isn’t the right time to tell her I’m moving out of the flat to live with Alex.

  ‘Have you got the pictures of the baby?’ she asks. ‘I’d like to see them.’

  I fetch them from the flat.

  ‘Ah, bless,’ she says. ‘Do you know the sex?’

  ‘It was being shy,’ I say, watching Emma for her reaction, but her express
ion is guarded, ‘so, no, we don’t.’

  It’s a strange, stilted conversation, as though we’re both trying to forget what passed between us the other day and start again.

  ‘Um, I wasn’t expecting you in today. I asked Frances to book for me and Drew. If I’d known …’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Emma says, continuing to stare at my scan pictures. ‘I should have let you know. They didn’t make it – the embryos from round one.’

  ’Em, I’m sorry –’

  ‘Don’t be,’ she cuts in. ‘I didn’t expect it to work first time. Ben and I had kind of budgeted – emotionally and financially – for at least three cycles.’ She bites her lip, then continues, ‘Everyone at the clinic’s very supportive and optimistic, which is great, and we’re going to try again as soon as my consultant gives us the go-ahead’ – she grimaces – ‘which means more injections.’

  ‘When do you start?’

  Emma hands the pictures back to me. ‘As soon as possible.’

  ‘Is that wise? I mean, shouldn’t you have a break to give yourself time to recover?’

  ‘I’ve told them, I’m not wasting any time. I can’t bear the thought of doing nothing.’

  I want to ask what happens after three cycles. What will she do if there is still no baby? Will she go back for more? Will she be able to stop and accept she will never have children? Will she be able to move on? I can’t ask her, though, because – I touch my bump – my baby is in the way.

  ‘Ben should be better at the injections second time around,’ I say. ‘Practice makes perfect.’

  Emma smiles, and I can see she’s been swept back up into the frenzy and anticipation of the next cycle of IVF. I can’t imagine it myself, and it must be particularly hard for Emma, with her being a control freak – in the nicest possible way, of course – to be so out of control. I have to admire her for pursuing her goal with such single-minded determination, even if I am shocked that she can cast aside everyone and everything that’s important to her while she goes out to get it. However, Emma’s stuck by me through some dark times and I’m going to stick by her.

  ‘Do you want some gossip?’ I say. ‘You’re the first to know. Alex has asked me to move in with him.’