I head upstairs to the flat.
‘Hi, I’m home.’ I put my head around the living-room door. Gran is sitting there with Norris lying across the back of the chair and a grey and white dog stretched out in front of the gas fire. My pulse quickens with expectation. ‘What’s going on? Why is Frosty still here?’
Gran stabs a button on the remote, turning the television down.
‘There’s been a development. You say you like salad? There’s lettuce in the fridge and a tin of tuna in the cupboard – I’m afraid the dog’s had your dinner.’
Frosty jumps up and trots over to me, squeaking and wagging her tail, sending two of Gran’s china horses flying from the coffee table to the floor.
‘Oh, look what you’ve done,’ I say, hugging her.
‘I know she’s going to be trouble,’ Gran grumbles lightly, ‘but I thought we’d keep her anyway.’
‘Gran, you’re a star.’
‘I know.’
‘What made you change your mind?’
‘When you left, she sat facing the door and didn’t move until Ed from the ironmonger’s came in to pay his bill, when she turned tail and hid under the counter. The look in her little eyes peering out from the dark broke my heart. How could I let her go?’
‘What’s that scratch on her nose?’ I ask, noticing a fresh mark across her muzzle.
‘Norris gave her a swipe when she tried to say hello to him. I’ve bathed it with cold tea.’ Gran smiles fondly. ‘I gave her a couple of digestive biscuits to cheer her up afterwards – she loves her home comforts.’
‘I bet she does. Thank you.’
‘It makes me happy,’ she says. ‘Just promise me you won’t bring home any more waifs and strays, though. It’s getting a little crowded.’
‘At least she can earn her keep as our guard dog,’ I point out, picking up the china horses, one of which is undamaged while the other has lost the tip of its tail.
‘She’s going to have to wash her ears out – she didn’t move a muscle when you came in.’ .
‘She was fast asleep. She must be exhausted. Give her a chance.’
‘She needs rest and plenty of good food, then she’ll be ready for anything. Go on, I can see you’re itching to let the shepherd know.’
‘I’m not,’ I argue, but she’s right. I have my mobile in my hand ready to call him. I slip out to the kitchen to throw a tuna salad together, chatting to Lewis at the same time and listening to the rich tone of his voice; it reminds me of dark chocolate, molten and topped with cream.
‘So you kept her? Oh, that’s brilliant. You won’t regret it, I promise you.’
‘I’m not so sure about that,’ I say, smiling. ‘Gran’s already given her my dinner.’
‘You can always come and have dinner with me. Anytime. Like now?’
‘It’s a little late tonight, but thanks for the offer.’
‘Another evening then?’
‘Yes.’ A pounding pulse of lust fills my ears, because if I joined Lewis for a meal, I’m not sure I’d be in a fit state to eat anything. ‘Yes, that would be . . .’ I don’t know how to put it. The truth would sound completely over the top when I hardly know the guy, but ‘lovely’ seems inadequate. That’s what it has to be, though. ‘Lovely, thank you.’
‘Let me know when you’re free, Zara, and remember what I said – if you need any advice or moral support, you know where I am.’
I’m in need of some support for my morals right now. It’s mad but Lewis makes me feel sick with longing and I’m more convinced than ever that he feels the same.
Later, when I’m in bed, with Frosty scrabbling frenziedly at the other side of the door, I recall his promise that I won’t regret taking Frosty on. When I can take no more of her heart-rending whining, I get up with my duvet wrapped around my shoulders, and let her in, at which she jumps straight onto the end of the bed: After brief negotiations over sharing the space, I settle down with Frosty, who’s like one of Gran’s comforting hot-water bottles across my feet, but I still can’t sleep for thinking about Lewis.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cold Nose, Warm Heart
I am now officially a dog owner. I’ve joined the club. The dog walkers of Talyton St George smile and say hi, stopping to talk when they see us, but Frosty has other ideas, lunging and growling at every dog that comes within a few paces. Everyone with a canine connection has their own theory: she’s young, she’s finding her feet and she needs time to settle down after what she’s been through. Lewis calls me to ask how we’re getting on and I tell him we’re good, thank you, and kick myself afterwards for not suggesting that we meet for a coffee and a chat.
Down on the Green, I decide to let Frosty off the lead so she can be just like all the other dogs. At first, she won’t leave me as we stroll on towards the river, but as soon as she spots Aurora and her big black poodle, she charges up to it, barking and growling. The poodle sticks its nose in the air and trots along the path, but Frosty can’t take the hint that the other dog isn’t interested, and she continues to wreak havoc, running in circles until it finally snaps, at which she retreats briefly before diving in for another go.
Gasping for breath, I run to catch up.
‘Frosty, you mustn’t do that.’ I’m beginning to feel like Emily must do with Poppy.
‘You really should keep her on a lead,’ Aurora says. She owns the fashion boutique in town and she’s dressed like an advert for her clothes, as always, in a cool leather and hound’s-tooth check jacket, short skirt and knee-high boots.
‘I’m sorry,’ I repeat, embarrassed. ‘She wants to play, that’s all.’
‘She has a very funny way of showing it.’ Aurora hesitates. ‘I didn’t know you had a dog, Zara.’
‘She’s new.’ I make a grab for Frosty’s collar, but she legs it again, this time heading for the main road.
‘Frosty,’ I yell in desperation, as I envisage my brief stint of dog ownership come to an abrupt and tragic end. ‘Come back!’
My heart is in my mouth, but just as she reaches the exit onto the bridge, a small terrier comes running onto the Green. Frosty bowls it over, but it comes back for more. At first, they appear to be play-fighting, but the growling and snarling escalate until the terrier’s owner goes in, pulls the dogs apart and drags Frosty across to me.
‘You’re lucky a) that the Bobster didn’t bite your dog and b) that it didn’t get onto the road and cause an accident.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I’m also incredibly hot. I recognise the terrier’s owner – it’s Matt, Nicci’s husband. Keeping my eyes on the ground, I clip the lead back onto Frosty’s collar.
‘She’s in very poor condition – has she seen a vet?’ Matt goes on.
‘She’s a rescue – we are trying to fatten her up.’
‘I see. You know you really should take her to dog training or something.’
I feel really bad. I’m a rubbish mother, I think, looking down at Frosty and realising how some of my mums must feel about coping with a new baby, the doubts and insecurities.
‘Thank you for the advice,’ I mutter before moving on. ‘Let’s go home, Frosty. I don’t know about you but I think I’ve had enough.’ I wonder if I should contact Lewis for help, but I don’t want to look like an idiot when I’ve been hoping that the next time I see him, I will be strolling across the fields with my dog at my heels or alert to the sound of my whistle. Looking after a dog can’t be all that difficult. Uncle Nobby managed it, after all.
On the way back through the bottom of town, I run into Wendy, the dog-fosterer for Talyton Animal Rescue. She has five dogs swirling around on leads as she tries to pick up with a poo bag, a manoeuvre not helped by Frosty, who drags me into the melee.
‘Do keep your dog under control,’ Wendy says, redfaced and flustered. ‘It’s a lovely creature, I’m sure, but it really needs you to teach it some manners.’
‘She isn’t my dog, she belongs to a friend of mine.’ I don’t know why I say it. It j
ust pops into my head.
Wendy frowns. ‘When I went to pick up the paper, your gran told me she belongs to you.’
The lies dog owners tell! I’m even more embarrassed now that Wendy has caught me out. I don’t know what to say.
‘You should bring her to dog training. We have classes every weekday from seven in the hall at the school. The class you want is for our absolute beginners on a Thursday. Don’t worry, Zara. We can train any dog. Our motto is, training is a walk in the park.’
I sign up straight away, intent on giving Frosty every chance of becoming the model canine citizen and hoping Claire will understand how much more important this is than the weekly weigh-ins at fat club. She doesn’t, of course.
‘You mean you’re putting a dog before me and the wedding?’ she exclaims when I call to tell her. ‘You’ve gone a bit weird.’
‘I can’t help my busy social life.’ I giggle. ‘You should be happy for me. You’re always telling me to get out more. Maybe I’ll meet the man of my dreams at dog training.’ I’m being flippant. At the moment, the man of my dreams is Lewis.
‘You aren’t going to be one of these people who can’t think of anything else apart from their dogs, are you? I hope you aren’t going to want to bring Frosty to the wedding.’
‘She’d look so cute,’ I say, picturing her outside the church in the sunshine alongside the bride and groom. I continue through Claire’s stunned silence. ‘I’m winding you up. I’ll have to find someone to dog-sit – Frosty hates being left even for a minute. If you shut her in, she whines and scratches the door.’
‘Zara, you’re mad,’ Claire says. ‘Now you have to worry about doggy day-care as well as everything else.’
‘It’s worth it, though – it’s good to have something warm and furry in bed with me again.’
‘Ugh, I don’t want to know. Was Paul that furry?’
‘He had hairy shoulders – he used to shave them.’
‘That’s disgusting. You really are better off without him.’ Claire changes the subject. ‘I’d better go. Ben wants a chaperone – for his peace of mind, not the patient’s. I’ll catch you later.’
Talyton’s dog-training club meets in the school hall, which is used for various community events. It smells of cold dinners and plimsolls, and I feel like I’m about ten again. Frosty and I are in the class for absolute beginners with four other dogs and their owners. There’s the tiniest Chihuahua dressed in a pink tutu, a wrinkled Shar-Pei with a studded harness, and two adolescent yellow Labradors. I can’t believe my eyes and I don’t think Frosty can either. I keep her in the corner of the hall as far away from her classmates as possible.
Wendy, dressed in a Puffa jacket, denim skirt and stout brown shoes, takes the class. She introduces herself as having been ‘in dogs’ all her life, picking hairs from her roll-neck sweater and discarding them where they float through the air and fall onto the wooden floor that’s sticky with polish.
‘Let me show you what you’re aiming for with your dogs. Phil, our advanced trainer, is going to demonstrate a recall with the lovely Taser.’
Phil looks and sounds like he’s ex-Forces. He’s in his fifties, I’d guess, with lively eyebrows, a moustache, bulging muscles and a deep tan. He’s dyed his hair one shade too dark to suit him and he wears combats and boots. Taser is a rangy black and tan German shepherd.
‘Are you ready to do your thing?’ Wendy asks Phil, her voice rising into a girlish giggle.
‘You know me. I’m always ready for action.’ He smiles as he looks along the line of dogs, his eyes for the owners, though, and I don’t like it when he gazes at me, giving me a wink before moving on.
‘Watch, listen and learn from an expert,’ Wendy goes on.
‘The expert,’ Phil brags. ‘They don’t call me the Dogfather for nothing.’ He marches Taser to the far end of the hall, gives him an almost imperceptible command to sit and leaves him to take up a position at the opposite end. I watch how Taser, his eyes fixed on his master, waits for his command, and I glance down at Frosty, who’s more interested in having a good scratch at her ear.
Phil waits, as if to ramp up the tension, then releases the dog, but instead of trotting straight to him, Taser diverts to pick up some treats that someone has dropped on the floor, crunches them up and returns to his master to a ripple of amusement.
I notice how he grimaces as he lightly boxes Taser’s ears.
‘So you see, even a top dog can have an off day. Thank you. It’s always a pleasure to watch you at work. Can I ask you to stay around for a while to answer any questions that our newbies might have about obedience?’ Wendy beams around at us. ‘Phil is a scout for our teams: agility, flyball, obedience and dance.’
I’m beginning to feel the pressure. I recall standing in this very hall in a white T-shirt and red shorts, and never being picked for the netball or rounders teams, because I was a ‘big girl’ even back then. I was always last, even though Emily, the skinny twin, did her best to persuade the captain to choose me next.
‘I don’t want to be in a team, Wendy,’ I say, speaking out. ‘All I want is to be able to walk down the street with Frosty on the lead without her lunging and barking at everyone. I don’t want her to do doggie dancing – what if she has two left feet?’ I look down and smile. ‘She does have two left feet. How on earth can dogs dance? It’s unnatural.’
Phil raises one eyebrow, making me feel as if I’m lacking ambition and inadequate.
‘Let’s wait and see if she has any aptitude,’ Wendy says. ‘It would be a shame to see talent go to waste.’
‘Well said,’ Phil agrees. ‘Right, I’m going to watch you put these guys through their paces.’
‘Let’s make our introductions first,’ Wendy says, and we have to say a little bit about ourselves and our dogs.
There’s Baby, Candy, Craig and Alan – they’re the dogs.
‘I’m Zara and this is Frosty. I don’t know exactly how old she is, about eight or ten months old, maybe. I found her tied to a tree.’ I can’t help it – the tears are back as I go on, ‘I rescued her.’
Soon, we are walking in a circle with Wendy, Phil and Taser in the centre.
‘Keep your dogs on a loose lead. Best foot forward. Make it loopy, Zara,’ Wendy adds, as Frosty tows me around, intent on sniffing the bum of the Labrador in front.
‘How can I?’ I say, breathless. ‘She just runs further and further ahead.’
‘The more you pull, the more she pulls against you. Go loose, that’s it.’ Wendy smiles wryly. ‘It’s the owner who needs training, not the dog. That’s always the way.’
I let the lead go slack and Frosty runs ahead and sticks her nose under the Labrador’s tail. The Labrador promptly sits down, causing a traffic jam. It looks round at Frosty, a hurt expression on its face, but Frosty is glaring at Baby the Chihuahua, who’s trotted into her and is tangling its lead around her back legs.
‘Frosty, no,’ I say, but it’s too late. She pulls back, slips her collar and, to my horror, pounces on the Chihuahua and grabs her around the head.
‘No!’
Phil dives in, extracting the little dog from Frosty’s jaws and handing her to Wendy.
‘I’m so sorry.’ I want to cry, as Phil takes the collar from me and puts it around Frosty’s neck, fastening it tightly with no thought for her wound.
‘It’s all right, no harm done,’ Wendy says in a high-pitched tone, as she checks the little dog over, readjusts the tutu and hands her back to her owner, who is clearly trying, but struggling to be understanding.
‘I don’t like to condemn any dog,’ the owner says, ‘but is Frosty really ready for class?’ Baby snuggles to her breast. ‘It isn’t fair that she. should be allowed to bully the others.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I repeat.
‘Let’s give Frosty one more chance,’ Wendy says. ‘We gave Baby a chance when she pierced Candy’s ear and she hasn’t done it since. In fact, I think she has a good chance of winning this t
erm’s prize for the most improved.’ Wendy tweaks Baby’s tutu. ‘Oh, you’re such a little cutie, aren’t you, darling?’
That seems to pacify Baby’s owner for now.
‘Wendy, you continue with the class,’ Phil says. ‘I’ll take Zara and Frosty aside for some “one-on-one”.’
‘Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,’ Wendy says. ‘I don’t want to put you out at all.’
‘I’m here.’ He shrugs. ‘I might as well make myself useful.’
‘All right.’ Wendy turns her attention to me. ‘Zara, you can try the training techniques on your husband when you get home: reward the good behaviour and ignore the bad.’
‘I haven’t got a husband,’ I say quietly. I thought Wendy would have known, being one of Gran’s regulars, but she doesn’t appear to be listening and I end up in the corner of the hall with Phil.
‘We’ll try “Sit”,’ he suggests.
‘Frosty, sit,’ I say, but she isn’t listening, her gaze fixed on the Chihuahua across the room. I give a small tug on the lead to distract her. ‘Sit.’
‘I can’t hear you.’ Phil cups one ear. ‘Listen up. Say Sssit, as an order not a question.’
I try again and Frosty jumps up, grinning as if to say, it’s far too exciting here to sit down. I try to push her away.
‘Look away from her,’ Phil barks, and I wonder if I’ve put my child in the right school. Frosty is like a child, my baby. ‘Come on, you stand like you’ve given in. Shoulders up, head back.’
To my shock, I feel his hand on my shoulder and slipping down to the small of my back, prodding me to straighten me up.
‘Excuse me,’ I say quietly to his moustache, which is like a bottlebrush perilously close to my face. ‘Don’t touch me.’
‘Oh come on, it’s all in a good cause.’ His hand slides further down, and the next thing I know he’s squeezing my buttock.
‘Get off!’ I squeal. ‘I said, don’t touch me!’
Silence falls. The rest of the class looks on, dogs and all.
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