by Lucy Dillon
Stop it, she thought, pulling herself up short; you’re getting as bad as Anna, imagining stories everywhere. She grabbed her handbag off the sideboard, looking for her purse.
‘How much was the surgery?’ she asked. ‘I’ll give you half.’
But Rory waved her away with an airy hand. ‘Don’t worry about it. Mr Quentin settled the bill. He’s got an account with the vets.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Let me guess – you paid it yourself because you think if you’re the one being nice to Tavish, he’ll leave you the flat. I know your game.’
It was a running joke they had – or rather, a sort of joke. Rory delighted in reminding Michelle about her less than pure motives for taking in ‘the dog that laid the golden eggs’, and Michelle had her own suspicions about Rory’s long-term plans to secure his own accommodation. The accusations flew back and forth with lightness, but the feathers had a sharp edge.
‘If I were doing that,’ countered Rory, ‘don’t you think I’d have him all the time?’
‘Why do all the work, when you can get me to do half of it?’
‘I would have Tavish all the time,’ said Rory, surprised. ‘I’m only letting you have him during the week for some company. Rachel said your house was gorgeous, but what it needed was a dog to give it some life. Make it a home.’
While Michelle was still reeling from a barb that dug deeper than he knew, Rory smiled, a wide grin that gave his angular face a boyish light. ‘Can I have a cup of tea? What with all the dog-nursing, I didn’t get any milk this weekend, so I’ve been drinking that foul peppermint tea stuff you’re supposed to keep for guests.’
Michelle opened her mouth to volley back some comment about how out of date his peppermint tea probably was if he saved it for guests, but what came out was, ‘This house is a home. It’s my home. Just because it isn’t messy or filled with kids and animals doesn’t mean it isn’t a home.’
Rory’s smile froze. ‘What? I didn’t mean . . .’
‘And I am so sick of people telling me I need company,’ Michelle went on, powered by the pent-up stress she’d accrued as she prepared herself for her mother’s ‘You’re not getting any younger’ birthday lecture. ‘If I needed company I would move some hot young language student in here. Or a live-in gardener slash masseur, not a dog who sheds all over my carpet. “Company” is what you offer elderly housebound relatives. Or what businessmen pay for!’
‘OK.’ Rory held up his hands, looking genuinely mortified. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not the greatest at . . . knowing when to stop. It’s been pointed out before. Things usually sound better in my head.’
Michelle ground to a halt, embarrassed. That rant about not needing company had been one she’d rehearsed in her head, ready to throw at her mother, and though it had sounded good then, she had the uncomfortable feeling it made her sound a bit insane when spoken aloud. Gardener slash masseur. For God’s sake, Michelle, you sound like a sex-crazed pensioner.
‘Start again?’ she said, pinching her eyebrows in apology.
‘Can we?’
‘Course. Come through to the kitchen.’
Michelle turned the radio on and wished Rory had found her listening to some symphony or other, then wondered why on earth she’d wished that when she didn’t even like classical music that much. It was the kind of thing she used to do at school, forcing herself to listen to The Pixies in case one of the cool boys came round. And Rory was a cool boy, despite his geekiness.
‘Busy weekend?’ she asked casually.
She swilled hot water round the teapot and tried to remember what she’d told Anna she was doing in case Rory cross-checked.
‘Not really. Took some of Rachel’s rescue dogs out for a walk while Tavish was at the vet’s. If you do two laps of the park, she gives you a bacon sandwich, so that was my lunch sorted out.’
‘Sounds very charitable.’
‘It’s good fun. And the sarnies are excellent.’ Rory picked up a baking timer Michelle had never used, in the shape of a perfect peach. ‘You should come,’ he said casually. ‘When you’re not off on a minibreak one weekend.’
‘You spend your weekends walking dogs for a bacon sarnie? Surely there’s more in it for you than that?’ said Michelle. She wanted to say, ‘What a sweet thing to do’, like Anna would have done, but their relationship seemed rooted in this bantering mood, and she couldn’t stop herself.
He put the peach-shaped timer down and gave her a half-annoyed, half-amused look. ‘You’re very cynical, aren’t you? No, as it happens, I go there because it makes me feel like I’ve done something useful at the end of a week, when usually all I’ve done is shuffle a pile of paper from my desk to someone else’s. If you’d seen how grateful the dogs looked today, just for a quick chuck of a ball in a field . . . maybe you’d come out too. It’s really not a lot to do.’
It was Michelle’s turn to feel as if she’d hit a nerve. ‘Have you ever had a dog of your own?’
‘No. Esther always wanted to get one, but we couldn’t commit to . . .’ He paused, and self-consciously corrected himself, ‘I didn’t want to commit to one, so we used to volunteer up there instead. I got to know Cyril and Agnes through Four Oaks, and they took pity on me and offered me their flat when Esther and I split up, and so I guess if you want to be cynical you could say I did quite well out of it. If you want to be more philosophical you could say it was a karmic reward. Anyway,’ he finished, ‘I like a stroll and a coffee on a Saturday, it’s not a big deal to walk a dog or two at the same time.’
Rory picked the timer up again and twisted it round to thirty minutes. ‘Really, you should come up some time. You might meet some new people. New customers, even. Get Tavish to model some designer collars.’
Michelle put the teapot on the table trivet. Was he suggesting she go with him? Was that a date? She couldn’t tell. Something curled away inside her, reluctant and keen at the same time. ‘What are you setting that timer for? You know it’ll make an unholy racket when it goes off.’
‘Good. That’s how long I’m staying. When it goes off, so will I.’
She pushed a mug and the milk jug towards him. ‘You think you’re staying that long?’
‘Depends how rude you’re going to be to me.’ He sipped his tea, not slurping this time. ‘While I’m here, I’ve had an idea for the bookshop – one of my mates has written a novel and I suggested he have a launch party at the shop . . .’
Michelle steeled herself not to agree immediately to Rory’s friend’s book launch, but grudgingly found herself listening, then trying not to smile at Rory’s outrage at the way his mate had dragged every single one of his friends into the writing of his dreadful novel, the phone calls at all hours of the night to get their views on ever more ludicrous murder methods, the list of scores his friend had decided to settle with character names. His eyebrows went up and down as he spoke and his hands flew round, nearly knocking things off the table as he moved jugs and sugar bowls to illustrate how close they’d come to murdering him themselves.
When Rory got to the part where his friend made him lie down in the pub to draw round him with chalk to check how he’d have to fall to leave an ‘intriguing outline’, Michelle let out an involuntary laugh so loud Tavish jerked awake in his basket and barked. Or rather, it wasn’t a bark so much as a scared croak. The pathetic sound made them both stop.
‘It’s where he was intubated,’ Rory explained. ‘Might be a bit scratchy for a while.’
Michelle checked her watch, and as she did, the timer went off with an ear-splitting peal and Rory slammed his hand over it, muffling the sound. How could half an hour have passed so fast, she wondered? It felt like, well, not that long. No wonder Tavish was looking peeved, being made to wait for his dinner.
‘Is this thing accurate?’ he asked, with a smile that caught her unawares. ‘That can’t be thirty minutes.’
‘Are you saying my merchandise is faulty?’ she countered.
Ask him to stay for supper, yelled a voi
ce in her head, but she couldn’t. What if he said no? Or said yes and then thought she was an awful cook? Harvey had always complained about her cooking, and insisted on taking friends out for meals ‘so we can all stay friends’.
Before she could think what to say, Rory was standing up and shrugging his coat on. The tightness returned to her chest. He obviously wanted to get away, had other plans to attend to. Maybe he had company, unlike her. The impulse shrivelled, and she was glad she hadn’t asked.
‘Let me know if Tavish doesn’t seem himself,’ he said. ‘I told Cyril we’d keep him up to speed about the old boy.’
‘Of course you did,’ said Michelle, grabbing the chance to tease him. That was safer ground. ‘You hero, you. Did you tell him you’d sacrificed your own tatty sweatshirt?’
‘What? Oh, I see what you did there. Back to me doing this for nefarious reasons. I thought we were past that.’
Rory held her gaze, and Michelle felt as if she’d overstepped the mark. She wished she could take it back.
She started to say,‘We are,’ but he was speaking, and she bit her tongue.
‘Of course I’ll let him know that you’re letting Tavish dribble on your soft furnishing too,’ he said, then added, ‘He’s glad you’re sharing the caring. In fact, he said you needed the company.’
‘What?’ she began.
‘Of course he didn’t. Cheerie bye, Tavish,’ said Rory pointedly. He waved at the basket. ‘Bye, Michelle.’
‘I’ll see you to the door.’ She got up and followed him out, aware of his height. Rory towered over her, especially in her flat indoor shoes. Michelle noted too late that she’d forgotten to ask him to take his off, and he’d trailed mud through her hall.
15
‘Alana: The First Adventure showed me that you can do anything you want, so long as you put your mind to it. Alana was strong, gutsy and the type of girl you just wanted to be.’
Angie Willocks
Tavish slowly began to perk up over the next few days, and made the most of his recuperation with boiled rice and cod and other gum-friendly delicacies. Michelle had to remind herself of the bigger picture as she squeamishly checked his sore gums every morning and hid his meds in lumps of cream cheese, but it distracted her, and suddenly she was at the end of the week, and face to face with her thirty-first birthday.
Anna was waiting for her at the bookshop when she and Tavish arrived to open up, her face bright with enthusiasm at having remembered Michelle’s birthday, despite Michelle’s best efforts to pretend it wasn’t happening.
‘Happy birthday! I wanted to give you a breakfast treat, so Phil did the school run.’ Anna pressed a bunch of pearl-white tulips into her hand, followed by a bag of pastries from the bakery and a flat wrapped present that Michelle already knew would be a book. She followed them all with a big hug and kiss. ‘I hope you have a wonderful year,’ she said, into Michelle’s freshly washed hair.
Tavish barked, and Anna promptly released Michelle and gave him an ear tickle.
‘I’m sorry it’s not more exciting,’ she went on, ‘but it’s just a short book that you might get round to reading.’
‘Anna, you’re too sweet,’ said Michelle, feeling overwhelmed by her thoughtfulness. ‘I can’t believe you found time with all the stuff you’ve got going on at home. And you know I love white tulips. You shouldn’t have . . .’ she went on, unwrapping the present.
It was an old copy of The Starlight Barking by Dodie Smith. The card read, ‘From Anna and Lily and Pongo x’
‘The sequel to One Hundred and One Dalmatians,’ explained Anna eagerly. ‘It’s about what happens when the dogs take over and start running things. Thought it might make you see Tavish in a new light.’
‘I already see him as a small dog who thinks he’s running things,’ said Michelle.
They both looked over to Tavish’s box. He’d made himself comfortable and was peering out, awaiting customers with his ears cocked.
‘How is he today?’ asked Anna, in the same way that she’d enquire about an elderly relative. ‘How are you, Tavish?’ she added, in a gruff doggy voice. Anna’s bad Scottish accent sounded a bit like Rory.
‘He’s much better.’ Michelle turned on the coffee machine.
‘Oh, Michelle. Join in.’
‘No,’ said Michelle. ‘It’s a slippery slope. Next thing he’ll have his own page on the website . . . Don’t!’ She raised a finger as a lightbulb went on in Anna’s eyes. ‘I mean it, Anna.’
The bell jangled as they were tucking into the croissants and gossiping about Kelsey’s latest bust-up with Shannon, and a huge bouquet of pink roses, yellow freesias and cerise lilies appeared in the doorway, nearly filling it with a clash of colour.
Michelle’s stomach sank. Owen was carrying them, but she knew who they were from.
‘Owen, you are the ideal brother!’ said Anna joyfully. ‘Would you like to go round to Phil’s office right now and tell him just how much ladies love to get flowers for their birthdays?’
‘Um, I didn’t get these.’ Owen cast a nervous look between Michelle and Anna. ‘I wouldn’t dare. I still owe her for the phone bill. Happy birthday.’ He reached into his back pocket and handed over a packet wrapped in the basic brown paper Home Sweet Home used to roll breakables in. ‘It’s a Furminator for the dog. Stops your carpet getting so hairy.’
‘Thanks,’ said Michelle. ‘Are you saying I have a hairy carpet?’
Anna sniggered and then looked cross with herself. ‘Sorry. Too much time spent with teenagers.’
‘The flowers came to the shop first thing,’ he went on, handing them to her. ‘Gillian said they were spoiling the colour scheme in the new spring display.’
Anna turned to Michelle and raised her eyebrows. ‘From an admirer?’
‘An admirer with no sense of colour,’ said Michelle, searching through the foliage for the card, purely to stop Anna getting there first. The roses were scentless though the lilies more than made up for it with a headache-y, over-strong fragrance.
‘I bet they’re from Mr Quentin!’ Anna reached for the card, but Michelle snatched it away. ‘To say thank you for looking after Tavish. Or Rory?’
Michelle ignored Anna’s ‘innocent’ sideways glance. ‘He doesn’t know it’s my birthday. You two are the only ones who do, so kindly keep it to yourselves.’
‘Why?’ demanded Anna. ‘How will anyone know to give you presents?’
‘Our family go in for birthdays in a big way.’ Owen helped himself to a croissant. ‘You only get let off the bumps on your eightieth. Shell’s got to go down to Surrey for lunch tomorrow, have everyone give her joke presents . . .’
‘And make crap jokes about how I don’t look a day over thirty, so my brother can say, “No, you look three hundred and sixty-five days over thirty, ho ho ho . . .”’
Michelle stopped as she opened the card. In the florist’s round handwriting were the words, ‘Happy Birthday, darling. Looking forward to seeing you at your birthday lunch, lots of love from Harvey xxxxx’
A chill ran across her skin. The handwriting didn’t match the voice she could hear in her head: ‘Hello, darling’ – Harvey called everyone darling, part Leslie Phillips, part EastEnders – ‘how big a bunch can you do me for a hundred quid? Got a lady to impress here.’
‘Well?’ Anna was looking at her, her eyes bright with romance. ‘Who are they from?’
‘They’re from Harvey,’ she said flatly.
‘Well, that’s really thoughtful of him,’ said Owen. ‘He’s a good guy, Michelle. He doesn’t have to send you flowers on your birthday. But he still does.’
‘But I don’t want him to. I told Mum to tell him to stop,’ she said, feeling her stomach clench. One, or both of them, was ignoring her.
‘Didn’t you tell me all women loved flowers?’ Owen looked confused. ‘God, women are impossible.’
‘Don’t,’ snapped Michelle. ‘That’s the kind of stupid thing Harvey would say.’
�
��Is it? You’re too hard on the guy,’ said Owen. ‘He’s just trying to be friends’
Michelle felt a flicker of frustration that Owen, her one ally at home, didn’t have the full story. She could tell him, but that would mean telling him a lot of other things too, and she could still barely bring herself to think about those.
He got up and took the rest of the croissant with him. Michelle thought about calling him back, but he was already out of the shop, jangling the bell behind him.
Michelle slumped in the chair, feeling her shoulders lock with tension.
‘Harvey isn’t the kind of man who “just wants to be friends”,’ she said, in answer to Anna’s confused expression. ‘He wants complete control. Maybe now I’ve made a bit of money he’s decided I’m not the stupid daddy’s girl he liked to tell me I was. Maybe he’s finally realised I’m serious about getting a divorce. It doesn’t really matter. But he won’t stop until I’m back in Kingston, and nothing I say or do will make any difference.’
‘But if you don’t want to go back?’ asked Anna. ‘Can’t you just tell him? Can’t your dad put him straight?’
People like Harvey didn’t exist in Anna’s world. Michelle shook her head, unwilling to bring him into her own new, fresh and shiny world now. Even talking about him in the shop felt like soiling the clean paint on the shelves behind her.
‘My parents like him,’ she said. ‘Everyone who doesn’t really know him likes Harvey.’
‘Did he hit you?’ Anna’s voice was nearly a whisper.
‘I sometimes wish he had,’ said Michelle.
She balled up the bag the croissants had come in and threw it precisely into the bin. The neat dispatch made her feel more in control. ‘Anna, I can honestly say that’s the best birthday treat I’ve had in years. Thank you.’
She stood up to give her friend a hug and saw that Anna – caring, sympathetic Anna – had tears in her eyes. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘don’t be like that!’