by Lucy Dillon
‘Fido, you are very naughty.’ The woman did seem mortified. ‘Although I have to say it’s nice to see her so excited. Poor little mite’s been moping away in the corner of her kennel since she came into us.’
‘Fido! How do you know she’s called Fido?’
‘It was on her chip.’ The woman regarded her curiously. ‘How do you know she’s called Fido?’
‘Because I think she’s my dog.’
‘What? You’re Alice Robinson? Of King’s Avenue?’
‘Yes! How did you know?’
She rolled her eyes impatiently. ‘Because you went to the bother of chipping your dog, but you didn’t update the details when you moved, did you? The vet nurses have been trying to get in touch to let you know she was handed in, but no one had heard of you or Fido.’
Alice struggled to process it all. ‘The vet’s? She’s been at the vet’s? Aren’t you from the rescue?’
The dog walker transferred the leads from one hand to the other and offered her free hand to Alice. ‘I’m Rachel Fenwick, and yes, I run the dog rescue at the top of the hill. My husband, George, is the vet. Fido was hit by a car, we think – one of our farmer clients found her unconscious in a hedge and brought her straight to the surgery. Just bruising, as it turned out, but she’d had a shock and was badly dehydrated. If we’d been able to get hold of you sooner, we could have let you know.’
Something cold clutched at Alice’s heart. Gethin had said a bus had killed Fido outright. ‘When was she handed in?’
‘Ooh, not sure. I’ve been away . . . About six weeks ago? She’s been with me since the end of April. We thought maybe being with other dogs would cheer her up, but she’s been pining.’ Rachel’s expression was getting darker. ‘Clearly she misses you more than you’ve missed her. There aren’t that many dog rescues in the area. We haven’t had any enquiries.’
Luke coughed. ‘Alice has been in an accident too. She’s still recovering.’ He put a protective hand on her shoulder, but Alice was too busy thinking to notice.
‘No calls at all?’ She frowned. None of this made sense. Why had Gethin told her Fido was dead? If she’d just run off, why hadn’t he called round the vets and rescues in the area when she went missing?
Her head ached. Something was wrong and she couldn’t put her finger on it. It slipped and slid away, but it was almost there. There were facts in front of the dark curtain now, facts that didn’t fit together.
‘Oh dear. I’m not sure what to do now,’ said Rachel. ‘I mean, I know I should ask you for some ID, but obviously this is your dog. You don’t get better ID than that.’
Fido was curled in Alice’s arms, eyes closed in bliss. Alice inhaled her familiar doggy smell and thought, That’s exactly how I feel right now too. It was an old memory and a new one mixed together: relief, that she and Fido, without a single word of explanation, knew exactly who the other was.
‘Thank you,’ she said simply, to Rachel. ‘Thank you so much.’
Luke offered to drive her and Fido straight back to Stratton, but Alice took the train instead. She needed some time to think.
Rachel Fenwick lent her the lead that Fido had broken out of, and with the collar now refastened – though Fido showed no signs of ever leaving Alice’s side, let alone breaking away – they set off from the station back to Gethin’s house.
Walking with the terrier trotting just under her peripheral vision, sticking as close to her leg as she could, made Alice realise that her brain had been trying to prompt her while she was walking Lord Bob: it hadn’t been déjà vu; she had loved walking a dog. It made her wonder what else her brain was telling her when she wasn’t trying to remember things. With each street they walked, funny flashes slid across the back of her mind, as if the smell and feel of Fido had released them: Fido’s first startled walk in deep snow; a Big Issue seller with a sweet, greying Staffie they passed each morning; Dad’s dog, Barley, sneaking into Alice’s bed; Mum making a tutu for Barley’s birthday. Happy, bittersweet memories that no longer made her flinch with shock. Not now she had the beginnings of something solid to hold on to.
But underneath her happiness at finding Fido was the unsettling fact that Gethin had lied to her. Why had he let her think Fido was dead? It was such a huge, strange lie it made everything else feel shaky.
She spent the rest of the afternoon looking again at all the photographs in the house, trying to get into her laptop, wondering what else she didn’t know that she didn’t know, and at five, she heard the front door open.
Gethin was surprised to find her sitting at the kitchen table. ‘Alice! Have you moved back?’ His face shone with delight and Alice felt some of her simmering questions slip beneath guilt at doubting his good intentions.
‘No,’ she said. ‘But someone else has.’ She moved her chair to reveal Fido, flat out with exhaustion under the table. The scrape of the leg on the tiles woke the dog up, and when she saw Gethin, Fido froze, then barked twice, three times and stopped, her tail wagging at half-speed, uncertainly.
Gethin froze too, Alice noted. Was that a flicker of guilt? Shame? Doubt?
‘I found Fido this morning, in the park,’ she explained. ‘Or rather, she found me. Came racing over.’
‘It’s definitely her?’ He looked stunned. ‘I mean, how do you know . . . ?’
‘She recognised me. And the vet who found her scanned her chip.’ Alice gave him a long look. ‘It’s definitely her.’
‘Of course it’s you, isn’t it, Fido!’ He kneeled down to stroke her, and Alice wondered if he was taking that moment to come up with a story.
Fido sniffed him, glanced up at Alice, then, tentatively, licked his hand. A very polite lick.
Gethin fondled Fido’s ears, tickling her under her beardy chin. ‘Aw, Fido, it’s so good to see you . . .’
Alice couldn’t hold it in. What was he doing? ‘Why did you tell me she’d been run over by a bus? Why did you tell me she’d died?’
‘Because . . .’ He stood up and shoved both his hands into his unruly hair. ‘God, I’m sorry. You must think I’m completely mental. I don’t know, it just came out. She ran off while you were walking her, and you were on your phone and you didn’t see where she went. We searched and searched. You were absolutely hysterical, blaming yourself – I was so worried about you. I went to report it to the police and . . .’ He ground to a halt.
‘What?’
Gethin looked sick. ‘The police told me, on the quiet, that they’d had a few dogs stolen round here, little ones that gangs were using as bait for fighting dogs. And I didn’t want you to even think that might have happened to Fido. I couldn’t bear you worrying like that. I couldn’t bear it. So when you came back and you obviously couldn’t remember her, I thought it would be easiest just to hide all her things, instead of telling you she was still lost.’
‘But we looked?’
‘Of course we looked!’
Alice tried to make it fit. She wanted it to fit. But despite the horrible logic of Gethin’s story, something wasn’t right. Why was she walking Fido in Longhampton? She hadn’t known anyone in Longhampton before the accident. Unless . . . Did she have Fido with her when she was run over herself? But then that would mean Gethin was still lying now. Why couldn’t she remember? He was looking at her so sympathetically.
The invisible band round her head tightened. ‘The rescue lady said they’ve had her about six weeks. They hadn’t had any calls.’
‘She was in a rescue? Where?’
‘Longhampton.’ Rachel hadn’t said where her husband’s vet practice was, but surely it couldn’t be far from the rescue. ‘How did she end up there? Was there a walk we did round there, maybe?’
Gethin frowned. ‘Really? I phoned all the local vets and rescues. I’m sure I checked as far as Longhampton. Maybe you had gone there. You had been going on quite long walks – not answering y
our phone. Got me worried a few times. But look, she’s back now, and that’s all that matters. You didn’t lose her!’
Alice felt the nip of guilt. ‘It’s partly my fault we didn’t find her sooner. I hadn’t changed the microchip details.’ She lifted Fido up onto her knee. ‘They could have brought her straight here if I had.’
‘You told me you’d changed them.’ He looked hurt. ‘Didn’t you? I was really touched – it was a lovely gesture, given how much you loved Fido. I know she’s basically the only family you have, so . . . this was like making me part of it. I wish you hadn’t told me that now.’
Without knowing quite why, Alice found herself rushing to apologise. ‘If I said I was going to, I’m sure I meant to. I will now. I’ll speak to the vet. But you’re not going anywhere again, are you, Fido?’
Gethin put his arms about her from behind, locking them gently around her. ‘Well, maybe this is a sign,’ he said. ‘Fido’s come home, and now it’s time for you to come home too.’ He nuzzled her ear. ‘Did you get the emails?’
‘Mmm.’ I wish I could read my other emails, Alice thought. For context. She thought of the endless back-and-forth she used to exchange with her mates at work; every date analysed and discussed. Making decisions based on her own faltering analysis was new – and strange. But why did she feel a need to check? Wasn’t the evidence all there?
If only she could get into her laptop. Or had her phone, or even Facebook. What had happened that she’d decided to deactivate her Facebook account?
Something stirred in the back of her mind. An embarrassing photograph . . . an office party, maybe? There’d been a few. City drinks. Maybe she’d set her privacy really tight. Maybe because of the ex-boyfriend? The wife? Her heart sank. Oh God, that could be it.
‘So?’ Gethin kissed her neck and hugged her tight. ‘How about you make a decision? We can go over to get your stuff from the hotel right now . . .’
She nearly said yes, but her eye fell on Fido and something stopped her.
‘Soon,’ she said, and felt shapes moving in her mind, behind the dark curtain.
On Friday morning, in the hotel office, Libby checked the banking screen again, refreshed it, but it was still there: £500 in the business account that she didn’t have any record of.
She clicked into the details and tried to find where it had come from. It was her new routine, to check the hotel’s account every day after breakfast, balancing it against her to-the-penny budget. The last thing she wanted was to spend money she didn’t have, then get a demand to pay it back.
But no, this was definitely in credit. It had come from an account number she didn’t recognise . . . Corcoran.
Jason.
She frowned. Jason had walked out on the hotel, and he wouldn’t tell her what he was doing, but he was paying money into their account? And where was he getting it from, in chunks like that? He had to be dealing again, on the side. Had Steve let him do some trades on his personal account? Surely that was illegal.
‘Nggh.’ Libby sank her head into her hands. It wasn’t the way for Jason to make it up to her. That would be the worst possible way. He had to know that. She’d rather not have his money at all than have him heading down that road again.
Before she could think, she reached for her phone.
It rang three, four times, then went to voicemail. A few seconds later, she got a text: Can’t talk. In meeting.
How convenient, she thought. If he was reacting the way he did after their world fell in last time, he was probably sitting on his own in a cinema, eating handfuls of Revels and crying. Jason had let her deal with their friends. She’d had to come up with the explanations, until he’d cheered up enough about the idea of the hotel to bounce back, like Tigger, and tell everyone about their new adventure.
Have you deposited money in hotel account? she texted.
Three seconds later: Yes.
Libby stared at the screen. Could she ask where it was from? It felt so weird to be reduced to texting Jason questions. But she couldn’t stop herself comparing Luke upstairs, getting his hands dirty helping her, with Jason, running away, then throwing money at the problem, like that would solve anything.
Although it did, pointed out a voice in her head. It paid for a month’s groceries and some electricity bills. It meant she wouldn’t have to eBay her last nice handbag. For another month.
Trading? she asked, and was glad the text hid the tone of voice. On the phone, she knew that would be bound to spark an argument. Jason was very sensitive to ‘tone’.
There was a pause. No.
Lorcan’s van had drawn up outside, and she could hear Alice’s voice too, coming back from walking the dogs. The oncoming hustle of the day made her feel stronger, though; she was dealing with it, against even her own expectations. Jason walking out had made this happen. And he was missing it.
Libby heard Alice’s voice, laughing with the apprentices, and suddenly felt ashamed of herself. Be kind, she thought.
Thank you, she texted back, and her finger hesitated over the X on the phone.
She missed him so much. What was he doing? What was he thinking? Libby longed to ask, but something stopped her.
She’d always coaxed him into an apology, nudging him until it was easy. This time, she wanted Jason to make the first move, just to show he knew what he should be apologising for.
Libby put the silent phone down and got on with her day.
It was funny how Fido was exactly the dog Libby would have guessed Alice would have: old-fashioned, quirky and easy-going. She fitted in very well with the vintage-decor restyle.
‘I don’t know what I find more surprising,’ she said. ‘That there’s room for two dogs in that basket or that Bob doesn’t seem to mind another dog cramping his style.’
Bob and Fido were wedged in the old tartan bed in the office, Fido providing a very small white yang to Bob’s glossy black ying. One of Bob’s long ears overflowed the side, and Fido’s tail was at a strange angle, but neither of them seemed to mind.
‘Neither of those is the surprising thing,’ said Alice. ‘The surprising thing is that you welcomed another dog into the hotel without even mentioning the white hairs. You’re sure you don’t mind her staying with me?’
‘Come on. How could I turn down a miracle dog?’ Libby raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s not every day a dog comes back from the dead.’
‘Don’t. Gethin won’t stop apologising. Do I think he’s a psycho? No! Do I think he was trying to wind me up? No! I just think he’s a useless liar.’
‘It’s quite funny,’ said Libby. ‘It’s such a bloke thing to do, blurt out the first thing that comes into his head, then make it worse and worse.’
Alice dropped the stack of invoices she’d been sorting into Libby’s in-tray. ‘In a way, it’s good. I guess this is the point where we get to know each other properly, warts and all. So Gethin says stupid things when he’s under pressure. And he’s very protective of me.’ She stopped, and Libby spotted a tiny frown crease her forehead. ‘I suppose that’s not a bad thing.’
‘Have you . . . told him yet?’ Libby deliberately hadn’t mentioned Alice’s pregnancy for a few days, wanting to give her time to think it through, but she’d worried about it, all the same.
‘Not yet.’ Alice looked evasive. ‘I did another test, one that dates it. I’m still only just eight weeks. That’s early enough that, well, things might not work out anyway. I don’t want to get Gethin’s hopes up, and move back, and . . . all that.’ She glanced away. ‘It’s so final. I wish I knew if we’d talked about starting a family before. If this was planned.’
‘You can’t ask?’
‘I could.’ Her face said what she didn’t want to put into words. ‘But I think I know what he’d say. Oh God. Does this make me an awful person?’
‘No! None of it does. How can anyone know what they
’d do, in your shoes? But what about those pain meds you were on? Shouldn’t you see a doctor to check that wasn’t dangerous?’
‘Next week.’ Alice seemed scared but determined. ‘I’ll go next week. I promise. I just don’t feel pregnant. I can’t get my head around it. It’s like it’s happening to someone else. Like it’s part of my old life, somehow, and it’ll just . . . go away.’
Libby met her gaze. ‘It’s not going to go away, Alice.’
‘I know.’ She sank onto the one good armchair in the office and immediately Fido pricked up her ears and disengaged herself from Bob’s wrinkly embrace to jump onto Alice’s knee. ‘I know.’
‘Have you thought about—’ Before Libby could finish, the phone rang and she grabbed it. At the back of her mind, she always hoped it might be Jason, ringing to apologise, or to explain – anything instead of this silence.
‘Good morning. The Swan Hotel. How can I help you?’
‘Oh, hiiii,’ said a very London voice. ‘May I speak with Libby Corcoran?’
‘This is Libby.’
‘Oh, hiiiii, Libby. This is Tara Brady. I’m the freelancer from Inside Home. Coming to visit you for a feature? You spoke with my commissioning editor, Katie, a few weeks ago.’
‘Oh, hello! How are you?’ She gesticulated at the phone for Alice’s benefit, trying to mime ‘journalist’ by using an invisible typewriter.
Alice frowned and copied her. ‘Jools Holland?’ she mouthed.
Libby shook her head.
‘I’m good, thanks,’ said Tara. ‘Listen, I hope this isn’t going to be a massive pain for you, but my editor’s rejigged the Christmas issue and now she thinks a country-house-hotel travel piece would work much better for our October issue. Crisp leaves and cosy walks and new boots, you know.’
‘I do. I love autumn features!’ said Libby. October issues. They were out in September, weren’t they? ‘So you’d have to come a little earlier?’
‘Yes, quite a bit earlier because I’m going away on a three-week trekking thing for most of July. Um, I was really hoping I could come . . . the week after next? I’d need to file copy by the end of this month. Are you going to be ready then? We’d need to do photographs too, if you could rustle up some autumn atmos from somewhere.’