The Lonely Hearts Dog Walkers

by Sheila Norton

  ‘Sometimes a long break from each other changes everything,’ I’d said at the time, looking pointedly at Josh, and she nodded in understanding. They were now spending every weekend together, so I was keeping my fingers crossed for her.

  ‘Perhaps we won’t be able to call ourselves the Lonely Hearts Dog Walkers for much longer,’ I say now to Josh, with a smile. Even Louise, who’s still insisting she isn’t ready yet for another relationship, and might never be, at least has her new little dog for company now.

  ‘Especially now Simon’s so much happier,’ Josh agrees, giving me a hug.

  Simon is, of course, the ex-Lonely Heart that I’m most pleased about. It was on Christmas Eve, when a crowd of us had gathered at the pub, that I decided I’d finally had enough of seeing him looking sad and wistful, while Mum sat at home in Eagle House on her own, telling everyone she was having such fun as a single girl. I took Simon to one side and told him the situation was ridiculous, that Mum wasn’t the happy socialite she pretended to be, that she was lonely and only resisted his company – any man’s company – because she’d never got over what happened with my dad.

  ‘She needs someone who understands that, and who’d be patient with her and just be friends, for as long as it takes,’ I said. ‘I know she likes you, Simon – she wouldn’t have kept seeing you for as long as she did, and she wouldn’t be refusing to see you now, otherwise – it’s only because she’s so afraid of getting hurt that she’s still turning you away.’

  He nodded. ‘I understand that, Nic. I always did. I’d never hurt her, you know that. Or rush her into anything she wasn’t ready for.’

  ‘I know that,’ I agreed. ‘But does she? Isn’t it worth sitting her down and spelling it out, loudly and clearly, once and for all – instead of just hoping and praying that she’ll change her mind one day? She needs you to be straight with her,’ I said softly.

  I was taking a risk. He might have told me to butt out and mind my own business. He might have said he’d tried already, he wasn’t going to put himself through another rejection. But he didn’t. He put down his drink, gave me a little smile and a shrug, and said:

  ‘Well, I guess the worst she can do is bite my head off. You say she’s at home now?’ And when I went back to Eagle House, they were sitting in the lounge talking quietly together. I’d done what I could, and only hoped Mum wouldn’t tell me off again for interfering.

  To my amazement, she invited him round to Eagle House on Boxing Day. They were friendly but quiet with each other, as if they were both made of china and were nervous of touching each other. But on New Year’s Eve, she told me they were going out for dinner together. It’s progressed slowly, cautiously, from there: but now, at the end of February, they’re still seeing each other, and Mum seems, at last, to have dropped the big brave act about being a good-time single girl. I’m daring to hope, now, that neither of them will be lonely forever. I’m sure the lovely Simon could be the one to bring about the happy ending Mum deserves. With Gran still enjoying her film-and-sherry evenings with Sidney, it’s nice to know she isn’t going to be lonely either.

  We’ve nearly caught the others up now, but I pull Josh back, grabbing hold of both his hands and turning him to face me.

  ‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ I say softly, ‘before we rejoin them.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looks a little wary. ‘This sounds ominous.’

  ‘Not at all. It’s … good news, Josh.’ I take a deep breath. ‘You know what we said – after we went for those sessions with the bereavement counsellor during December?’

  ‘Which part?’

  The sessions were Josh’s idea, but in the end I was glad I agreed. It was exactly what we both needed. Being able to talk about Mae, and how we both handled our grief so badly, with a sympathetic outsider, made such a difference. After three sessions, we both felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from our shoulders, leaving us ready to move forward.

  ‘The part where we agreed it wasn’t too late to think about trying for another baby,’ I say, watching his face.

  ‘Yes?’ He looks back at me hopefully through the rain. ‘And … have you thought about it?’

  ‘Actually, it’s a bit too late to just be thinking,’ I say, my voice trembling a little. I’m not sure how he’s going to react. ‘Josh, we … haven’t been too careful, since we’ve been back together. Not every time. And, well, I’ve just done a test. Two tests, in fact, because I couldn’t quite believe the first one – considering how long it took us before. Yes, I’m pregnant! I think it’ll be due in October. I hope you’re all right with it … we didn’t exactly have a chance to discuss—’

  ‘Oh my God!’ He grabs hold of me, almost hoisting me off my feet, and – with the rain pouring off both our coats, dripping off our faces – kisses me so fiercely I eventually have to break free, laughing, protesting that Mia’s staring at us in surprise. ‘I’m over the moon,’ he says, unnecessarily, his own voice shivering with emotion. He lets me go, and brushes me down as if he might have spoilt me in some way. ‘I’m going to look after you so well,’ he says, fiercely now. ‘I won’t let you do a thing. You’re going to rest, and be spoilt, and—’

  ‘No, Josh,’ I say gently. ‘I’m going to carry on as normal, as best I can. We mustn’t spend the whole of this pregnancy worrying about … what might happen. We need to assume that nothing will. Nothing, apart from it ending with a healthy little baby brother – or sister – for Mia.’

  ‘You’re right. You’re so much stronger now,’ he says. ‘And I love you more than ever.’

  ‘Good!’ I joke. ‘So – maybe we ought to tell Mia what all this public display of affection is about, as she and Smartie are both looking at us with disgust!’

  ‘Are you having a baby?’ Mia asks, in tones of disbelief.

  I’d forgotten how good her hearing is.

  ‘Would you like that?’ I ask her. ‘A baby brother or sister?’

  ‘YEAH!’ she screams. ‘Hooray! I thought I was never going to have one. Can it sleep in my room? Can I push it in the pram? Can I tell all my friends about it? I can’t wait!’

  ‘I think that’s a yes!’ Josh says, laughing. Even Smartie’s barking with excitement now, and all the rest of the group – all our lovely friends here in Furzewell, and their dogs! – are turning to look at us, smiling and asking what’s going on.

  And, despite the rain dripping down our necks, the cold wind freezing our fingers and toes, and the mud coating our boots and trouser legs, it feels, right now, that Furzewell is the best place on earth, and Josh is the best person to be here with. I’m so glad we both came home. So glad we’re a family again. And I truly believe neither of us will have to be Lonely Hearts again now – ever again.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  With thanks to my agent Juliet, my editor Katie and all the team at Ebury for all their help and hard work, as always. And thanks to helpful vet Sharon Whelan who once again gave me advice on a couple of pet care queries. Also to my puppy-owning friends and family for advice about buying a new pup from a breeder.

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  CHAPTER 1

  I first met Nick Abbott on a lovely morning in the middle of May. I’d been standing on the beach, the gentle waves just lapping my toes, gazing out to sea. It was my favourite time of year in Pennycombe Bay, still relatively quiet before the main onslaught of holidaymakers but with the possibility of sunny days and long, light evenings. My cocker spaniel Prudence was splashing madly in the shallow waves, full of the joy of being alive, when suddenly a big shaggy brown dog dived into the sea next to her, completely submerging her for a few seconds before she shook herself and bounded after him.

  ‘Sorry!’ called a voice from behind me. ‘He’s a bit too exuberant!’

  ‘It’s fine.’ I turned, smiling in my usual hesitant way at the tall, blond, good-looking guy approaching me down the beach. ‘Look, they’re friends already.’

  ‘So easy for dogs, isn’t it,’ he commented, laughing. ‘No awkward introductions, no bothering with hearing each other’s life histories. Just jump straight in and start playing.’

  I nodded, struck dumb now with shyness. He was right, I thought sadly. If only I could be as easy and carefree as these dogs and, come to that, as easy and relaxed as this handsome stranger seemed to be. Ignoring my silence, he was already going on to talk about his dog – Buddy – how long he’d had him, how nice the weather had been, and how long he’d lived in Pennycombe Bay.

  ‘Are you local yourself?’ he asked eventually as I was still struggling to think of anything to say in response.

  ‘Yes. I’ve been living here for about four years now.’

  ‘Oh, right. I haven’t seen you down here before,’ he remarked.

  ‘Well, during the winter I usually take Prudence to West Beach.’

  ‘Oh, right. Of course. Dogs aren’t allowed there from May to September, are they?’ he said. ‘I prefer it here anyway, myself.’

  I nodded. West Beach, closer to the centre of town, was where all the holidaymakers went, but this smaller, rockier beach at Stony Cove was prettier, as well as being quieter. The only reason I chose West Beach, outside of the peak season when dogs were allowed there, was that it was a slightly shorter walk from my home, and time was at a premium. I checked my watch now, quickly, and gave a little start of surprise.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Um, it was nice to meet you but I need to get going.’ I shrugged self-consciously. ‘Come on, Prudence.’

  As usual I was trying hard not to let my natural shyness come across as downright rudeness. It was a difficult balancing act. I could already feel myself starting to blush. But he was still smiling, as if he hadn’t even noticed how awkward I was.

  ‘Work?’ he asked, sympathetically. ‘Luckily I’ve got a day off today.’ He grimaced. ‘Back to the grind tomorrow, then I’ll be walking Buddy a lot earlier, as usual.’

  ‘Right.’ I nodded, and managed to give him a smile in return. ‘Well, sorry, but I really must dash, I’m running late.’

  Prudence bounded out of the sea towards me, ears bouncing, tail waving, her eyes bright with excitement. I stepped away from her a little as she shook herself vigorously, sea water flying in all directions, then I fastened her lead. I looked up at the guy, gave him a flustered little wave and turned to go.

  ‘Nice to meet you too,’ he called after me. ‘Hope I didn’t hold you up! I’m Nick, by the way.’

  ‘Oh, I’m Jess,’ I mumbled, without looking back. ‘Bye, then!’

  I walked quickly back along the beach towards the steps up to the road, embarrassed and annoyed with myself. What was wrong with me? I couldn’t even manage to have an ordinary conversation with a man without being so shy that I was in danger of coming across as downright rude. And now I’d probably made myself late for work. I looked at my watch again and tried to force myself to relax. It was OK. If Prudence and I walked at a decent pace we could be home from here in about ten minutes – if you could call it home. Then I shook myself. Now I was just being ungrateful! Ungrateful to my cousin, whose house I lived in. Ungrateful for my nice life here in the place I’d loved ever since I was a child, when my dad used to bring me here for days out from our home in Exeter. And, of course, I knew I should have been thankful for the fact that I had a job, even if it wasn’t exactly what I’d imagined myself doing as a career. It was a nice little job, and it was better than being unemployed, I told myself sharply. Better than having to sweep the roads or clean toilets for a living. I was lucky, I reminded myself yet again. Snap out of it, girl!

  The fact was that I loved living here in Pennycombe Bay, I loved being able to walk on the beach with Prudence every morning before work and, later in the summer, to swim in the sea during the evenings, when the water was at its warmest and most of the tourists had packed up and left the beach. The quaint, narrow, cobbled little streets that made up the town centre, the quirky shops and cheerful, friendly cafés were all part of the reason I felt so at home in the little town. I was so lucky to be living here, I reminded myself again. So why did I sometimes feel so unsettled? Why couldn’t I shake off this niggling feeling that life had cheated me, that everybody else was more fulfilled and happy than I was?

  ‘Why can’t I be more like you?’ I said out loud to Prudence. ‘Why can’t I just enjoy my nice life, and be grateful for it?’

  Prudence looked up at me, her head on one side as if she’d like to help, if only she could.

  Don’t worry, Mum, she seemed to be saying. At least you’ve got me!

  I laughed at the expression on her little face. As long as I had her, why should I worry about anyone else? A chance encounter with a good-looking stranger on the beach didn’t matter in the least. I’d have forgotten all about it by the next day.

  Home was number five, West View Villas, and was just one street back from the seafront, up a short but quite steep hill that had Prudence and me puffing from the climb. A three-storey pink-painted house, built during the rise in popularity of British seaside resorts in the 1930s, it was at the top end of a terrace of similar houses. They were all painted in different pastel colours, and had been used as B&Bs for decades, but were now mostly owned by well-off young professionals like my cousin, or as second homes by Londoners who brought their families down to stay during the summer. Because of its history as a B&B, the house was a lot bigger than it looked from the outside, with five bedrooms and two bathrooms, a big fitted kitchen that had been knocked through to the dining room, and a separate lounge at the front. It was too big for one person – my cousin – on her own; I had no idea how she’d afforded to buy it. Too big even for the two of us, but needless to say, I wasn’t about to complain. Being on the end of the terrace had als
o given the house the advantage of space for a garage – a rarity in the tight little streets of this town – with a utility room built onto the back. The garden was small but at least gave Prudence somewhere to run around. And best of all, because we were at the top of a hill, the back bedrooms had balconies looking over the rooftops of the houses in the next street and down to the sea.

  By the time I let myself into the house that morning, my cousin had already left. Ruth was an accountant, working for a practice in Exeter where she’d been all but promised, if she stayed with them, a partnership by the time she was forty. She was counting down the years: four to go. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what it was like to be Ruth: to have to put on a smart suit every day, commute on the train and spend her life in an office, dealing with spreadsheets and figures, profits and losses, assets and liabilities and all the other things she talked about, which I didn’t understand or even want to. Going out for business lunches and meetings with clients; bringing work home to do at weekends. We were so different, it was hard to believe we were closely related. For a start, she was tall, slender and beautiful, with long straight dark hair that gleamed as if it were silk. I was much shorter, making me look a bit dumpy, and although my hair was the same colour, to my endless chagrin I hadn’t inherited the straight, shiny look. Mine was an unruly mop of curls that I’d finally given in and had cut short – it was the only way to manage it. Six years older than me, Ruth had been like a big sister to me when we were children. I’d looked up to her then. Now, it was definitely more a case of her looking down on me.