by Dillon, Lucy
‘No! I mean, sort of. Oh, George is terrible. I think it comes from living on his own.’ Megan paused, waiting for Rachel to regain control of the terrier. ‘But you should see Freda when he tells her how badly trained Pippin was. She goes all giggly.’
‘That’s probably because she’s the only one old enough to remember the last time that rude charm thing worked,’ said Rachel. ‘Doesn’t the fact that he lives on his own give him a clue?’
‘Well, that’s his choice. George isn’t short of admirers, believe it or not,’ said Megan. ‘Some women round here love that rugged Daniel Craig the Vet look. And he owns that practice, so he’s raking it in, with all the horses and farms round here. ’
Rachel snorted in amusement. ‘Daniel Craig! Is that what he thinks?’
‘It’s what everyone else thinks, especially since he turned up in a dinner jacket to Mrs Merryman’s Christmas drinks. Rachel, this is the sticks. There isn’t a whole lot of choice.’ Megan stopped, put one hand on Rachel’s arm, and widened her eyes in warning. ‘Spend more than a year in Longhampton and you’ll find yourself thinking Ted Shackley has a look of Paul Newman. Take it from me, you’d better start liking older men.’
Rachel laughed, and for a second, she almost forgot why that wasn’t the least bit funny. When it did sting – that she always went for older men, stupidly thinking they were more reliable – the joke was still there, and she felt a sudden relief. Megan didn’t know about Oliver. She didn’t have to explain him, or omit him, or apologise for him, as she’d done for her friends in London, leaving herself with half a life at any one time.
Oliver was gone. She was starting again. In a weird way, it was like a weight lifting off her shoulders.
Rachel chewed her lip and grinned, and they set off down the hill.
The path sloped gently and Rachel worried for the Westies’ little legs as they scampered on the uneven surface, but Gem seemed to keep them level, his calming presence stopping them from running too far ahead. It was sweet, she thought, watching the collie herd the two smaller dogs with instinctive care, as if they were sheep.
‘So, how long are you planning on staying?’ asked Megan. ‘Not prying, but at some stage we need to do a run to the supermarket.’
‘I know,’ said Rachel. ‘There are bills. I think I’m supposed to pay them until probate’s granted, then get the money back?’ She started to run a nervous hand through her dark hair then realised there was a lead attached to her wrist, and that she’d nearly jerked a Westie off its surprised paws. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit floored by all the forms and legal jargon. I don’t know where to start, really.’
‘Well, if you need any help, just ask,’ said Megan. ‘But in the meantime we need a top-up for kennel expenses and we’re out of milk and bread too. And, this is kind of embarrassing, but I haven’t been paid for last month and I’m a bit skint.’
Rachel stopped, embarrassed at her own self-absorption. ‘I’m sorry, Megan. I’ll call in at the bank and get some cash.’
I’ve probably got enough, she thought, making rough calculations. Somewhere between resigning from her job and learning that Dot’s inheritance wasn’t actually hers until this probate business was sorted out, Rachel hadn’t given too much thought to how she was going to support herself. Saving wasn’t really her thing; maintaining a ‘happy to be unfettered and single’ lifestyle to compensate for the complications of life with Oliver cost a considerable portion of her salary.
‘Great! So how long do you reckon you’ll be here? A month? A few months?’ Megan made a clicking noise and the Staffie cross on her longest lead stepped back in line, by her leg. ‘For ever?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Rachel.
‘I guess you’ve got your own flat in London, have you?’ Megan’s tone was conversational, not nosy, and so sincere that Rachel found herself responding honestly.
‘No, actually, I don’t have a flat. I’ve been renting, I’ve just handed the keys back. It was part of my job, you see, and I’ve just resigned. It’s … complicated.’
Megan looked up, interested, and at the sight of her sympathetic face, the words tumbled out. Rachel hadn’t been able to tell a soul any of this, not even her mother. Even her best friend, Ali, who’d warned her that exactly this would happen, over and over again from the comfort of her own marriage, had only had edited highlights.
‘I’ve just split up with my boyfriend, about a fortnight ago. We …’ Rachel hesitated, shaving off the less salubrious details to focus on the good, a PR force of habit. ‘We’d been together a long time, we worked together in the same agency. Oliver was a partner, and I was the senior account director. My flat was above the office – I mean, I got a deal on the rent for being a keyholder – but when we broke up, I really needed to get away. Right away. I wanted to be somewhere Oliver wouldn’t be able to find me. And then all this happened, and it felt like …’
‘Oh my God.’ Megan stopped walking and the dogs ran on, the leads extending. ‘Was he violent?’ She grabbed Rachel’s hand, her face taut with concern. ‘You can tell me, I won’t tell anyone. But if he’s looking for you, maybe we should tell Freda and everyone to be on guard? You should talk to the police station, they’re so good here, it’s not like London.’
It took a moment for Rachel to work out what Megan was saying, but when she did, her skin crawled. That hadn’t been what she meant! She didn’t want Oliver to find her because he’d be incandescent about the deliberate chaos she’d caused when she’d left, but also because one word from him, and she was scared she’d fall back into his arms like the sucker she’d been for so long.
‘No, no, he wasn’t like that,’ she said. ‘He was …’ She stopped, searching for the right words.
But the trouble was, thought Rachel bitterly, you could only shave off so much inconvenient detail. Oliver Wrigley was her boyfriend, but he didn’t belong to her. He wasn’t, technically, hers to lose.
Oliver was married, to Mrs Kath Wrigley, and had been since 1989.
Rachel wasn’t proud of being a mistress, but she had truly loved Oliver. OK, to begin with she’d taken his stories about Kath’s lack of interest, and their outgrown shell of a marriage, held up by mortgages and school fees, with a pinch of salt, but there was a spark between them that she couldn’t resist, and he swore he only felt alive when they were together. She’d insisted to Ali – the one friend she trusted with the details – that theirs was a genuine love affair, an arrangement that gave her freedom, and spared her the guilt of tearing a father from his family. She’d insisted that Oliver honestly loved her, and Ali had nodded, and said nothing, which was about as much as Rachel could have asked.
For a long time, it had been exactly what she wanted. Oliver and Rachel understood each other, they had steamy, spine-tingling nights together, and he never got under her feet on a Sunday or saw her hungover. Gradually, Rachel had stopped listening to the voice reminding her it was wrong. She’d never asked him to leave Kath, for fear of hearing the answer she already knew, and for years it had been fine. Until she hadn’t been able to ignore what was in front of her.
Ali had told her it would end like this, two months after it began. Oliver was always going to go back to Kath. Tedious conversation and split ends notwithstanding, she was his wife. And now, of course, Rachel’s real punishment was keeping her heartbreak secret, just like she’d tucked her affair to her chest.
‘What happened?’
Megan was looking at her, a hundred domestic violence soap stories written across her face, and Rachel longed, wearily, for a few words of comfort. It was tempting. Her aching heart cried out for some sympathy. Yes she was a home-wrecking bitch, but one who’d only succeeded in wrecking her own home. Rachel’s resolve slipped, just a fraction.
‘I found out he was seeing someone else,’ she admitted.
Which was true: Oliver had been seeing his own wife, but lying to her about it. You didn’t take your wife for a dirty weekend in Paris while telling your mistress
you were at a conference in Glasgow. Rachel had enough self-awareness to see the gallows humour in that.
‘How did you find out?’
‘A receipt. Well, receipts plural. He emptied out his wallet on my desk and …’ Rachel gritted her back teeth, flinching inside at the memory. ‘Oliver always shredded, made me shred too. And I found one for a hotel in Paris. He’d had a lot of room service, put it like that.’
The final straw had come on a bad day, a Sunday. Rachel had been feeling unsettled, wound up with PMT, conscious of a new crepiness in her cleavage that hadn’t been there before, fed up because lonely Sundays were increasingly difficult to enjoy. It was a delicate, expensive balance, celebrating her independence and child-free existence hard enough not to see the other side. At first, Oliver’s unexpected arrival at her door had been a real thrill – a sign that maybe he had more time for her.
Rachel’s breath stuck in her throat. It wasn’t. That bastard Oliver had said nothing. Just that he was sorry. Then nothing again. Nothing. Ten years of her life, ten years she’d given up to him, while he’d given nothing at all. And the expression on his face when she confronted him had shown her everything she’d tried to ignore. He’d almost looked sorry for her.
That’s why she’d sent the keys of the flat back to Kath. With a note, telling her that if Oliver wanted his stuff, his spare clothes, his jeans that he was really too old to wear, his shirts that Rachel sent to the dry cleaners because ironing was his wife’s job – either of them were welcome to come and get them.
‘Oh God,’ she moaned under her breath. She couldn’t go back. Now the numbness was wearing off, the first licks of guilt about what she’d done to unsuspecting, golf-playing Kath were beginning to scorch her.
Megan took her arm, mistaking her moan for something else. ‘Rachel, I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘After all this with Dot too – you’ve been through the wars! I thought there was something up. My mum was just the same when my dad walked out, all zombie like. Slept for days, only talked to the dogs.’
‘Can we talk about something else?’ asked Rachel, trying to sound in control of herself. ‘It’s … it’s just … not that interesting.’
‘Sure!’ Megan clicked her tongue at Gem and they set off again. The cheery yellow arrows directing them around Longhampton’s Historic Canal Trail appeared at the edge of a wooded area, the wilder beginnings of Longhampton’s municipal park scheme. They passed one or two other dog walkers, who smiled at them both in a comradely fashion, while the dogs sniffed each other’s bottoms. ‘What do you want to talk about? The kennels?’
‘OK,’ said Rachel. She’d have to talk about them sooner or later. ‘Tell me about the dogs.’
Megan’s animated explanation of the kennels’ daily routine took them out of the woods and round the main town centre park, where old people sat in pairs on benches and straight regiments of daffodils lined up in the flower beds.
Rachel tried not to see the old couples. That was the thing about London; you rarely saw old couples together. Here they were like bookends, still holding hands at eighty, or however old they were.
‘… the bank? Rachel, are you listening? Do you want to go to the bank?’
Rachel dragged her attention back to where Megan was limbering up with a scary-looking ball-chucking device. It looked like a giant plastic tongue.
‘I can do some training with these guys if you want half an hour to run round?’ she went on. ‘There’s only two main streets – try the side streets by the town hall for your trousers, there’s one or two new boutiques opened?’ She held out a hand for the two leads Rachel was holding. ‘Gem, sit here and wait.’
Gem looked up at Rachel, and then dropped obediently into a sit by Megan’s side.
‘You tell him to wait,’ she said. ‘It’ll help you bond.’
‘Why would he take any notice of me?’ asked Rachel. ‘He didn’t read the will, he doesn’t know he’s my dog. I’ve done nothing with him since I arrived. He just mopes around the place.’
Megan’s face softened. ‘Gem’s grieving, Rachel. He lost the only owner he’s ever known, and he’s not a young dog, you know. He’s seven, so he’s like … fifty-something. He was with her when she died – came haring back here to tell me, just like Lassie. Poor soul.’
Rachel felt sad, and self-conscious. ‘I’m not the right person to replace Dot.’
‘All dogs ask for is a walk, and a pat,’ insisted Megan. ‘And the sound of your voice. Go on. Tell him to stay.’
Rachel looked awkwardly at Gem, who pricked up his feathery ears and wagged his tail along the ground, nearly knocking over Tinker the Westie.
‘Stay,’ said Rachel in a feeble tone.
‘And point to where you want him to be.’
Rachel pointed to Megan’s feet. ‘Stay there.’
Gem wagged his tail harder, then dropped down with his head on his paws, still looking up at her, waiting for her smile.
He looked so grateful for the attention. So keen to please her. Something flickered in Rachel’s numb heart. He wanted her attention. Her approval. He wanted to be owned and loved.
The other dogs scampered around, clearly thrilled to be out of their concrete runs and on the fresh grass, and Rachel made a decision; if she did one thing today, she was going to start the rehoming drive George had gone on about. It wasn’t just about money – these sad dogs needed people to love them. She couldn’t cope with the guilt if it was her inertia trapping them in the kennels.
Then maybe she could sell the house and kennels with a clean conscience. Dot couldn’t ask much more than that.
‘Good boy!’ she said to Gem. ‘Good boy.’
‘Great! Good boy! And good girl!’ Megan added, and tapped her watch. ‘We’ll have you doing agility in no time! See you back here at eleven? OK. Go!’
She hurled the first chewed-up tennis ball into the green space, and Rachel wasn’t sure if she was talking to her, or to the dogs who hurtled off after it.
6
While the boys were getting their Monday morning school things from their room, and safely out of earshot, Zoe swallowed a mouthful of scalding coffee to make her voice sound croaky, and dialled the salon number from the phone in the kitchen. She didn’t want them hearing the outrageous but totally necessary lie she was about to tell Hannah, the reception manager.
As it rang, Zoe kept one eye on the makeshift pen of cardboard boxes where Toffee was taking only his second nap in thirty-six exhausting, nerve-shredding hours.
At least, she hoped he was taking a nap. He could just as easily be shutting his eyes while trying to decide which bit of her house to destroy next. It was hard to say who was more excited – Toffee, or Leo and Spencer. Between them, they made an exhausting whirlwind of destruction. The sitting room looked as if someone had attacked it with a wrecking ball, and there were flakes of kitchen roll everywhere from the numerous ‘accidents’ she’d mopped up since Toffee had arrived.
Who knew a small puppy could hold so much wee?
‘Hey, Hannah!’ she said, when she heard herself being clicked onto speaker phone. ‘It’s Zoe, I don’t think I’m going to be able to come in today. I’ve had a terrible weekend. Haven’t slept a wink for two nights …’
Toffee began wriggling in his box, opened one eye and let out a happy squeal of delight to see Zoe. Her heart sank as he clamped his jaws around the edge of the cardboard box.
‘You sound really bad, Zoe,’ said Hannah. The salon was already rattling with early cleaning, the radio blaring in the background. ‘Do you want me to rearrange your clients for today?’
‘Would you? I’m sure it’s just a bug, but I didn’t want to spread it round,’ said Zoe, reaching for the biscuit barrel, keeping one eye on the box and one ear on the racket upstairs. The boys were racing through their toothbrushing in record time, to get back to winding up Toffee. ‘Listen, I’ll let you know how I am in the morning, cheers.’ She rang off, with Hannah’s bewildered get well wishes still hover
ing in the air.
She caught sight of her guilty face in her clean oven door and felt terrible.
Zoe hadn’t taken a sick day in years, and dragged herself into the salon through marital breakdowns, sleepless teething nights and snow. They owe me a few days’ sick, she told herself, though the guilt didn’t ease up. Neither did the bone-weariness spreading throughout her body. She was used to teething and nightmares but not night-long howling.
Zoe leaned out into the hall. ‘Spencer! What are you doing up there? Come on, we’re going to be late!’
As she raised her voice, Toffee began squealing in earnest again – a familiar sound that now went through Zoe like a knife.
She looked at him and Toffee made a whimpering noise.
Zoe knew what that meant and, abandoning the idea of putting bread in the toaster for herself, she grabbed the puppy, took four massive strides across the kitchen and held him out of the back door. Even then, she still ended up with most of the hot dribble on herself. She put him down and went to rinse her hands for the millionth time.
‘Good boy,’ she said firmly as Toffee sniffed around the back step. ‘Good wee.’
That was something she’d learned in the ten minutes she’d grabbed to look up house training on the internet. Take them out every hour, praise them when they went where you wanted, introduce a non-embarrassing phrase they could associate with going to the loo. So far, Toffee would learn to ‘toilet himself’ every time someone yelled, ‘Oh, for God’s sake, not there!’
Zoe and Toffee regarded each other with mutual suspicion. ‘Where am I going to leave you while I go to the shops to get all the stuff your stupid daddy didn’t bring with you?’ she demanded. How long could you leave a puppy for, anyway?
A thundering down the stairs indicated that the boys were on their way. Zoe could hear Leo yelling ‘Toffee! Toffee!’ which set the puppy off yelping in pure joy. She picked him up so he wouldn’t run under their feet.
‘We’re going to have to get you to a training class,’ she said to his perfect wet nose. ‘And possibly your brothers as well. I reckon they need a bit of training too.’