Walking Back to Happiness (18 page)

‘Well, yes. But he’d love to have his auntie look after him. You can come over earlier and help me bath him and put him down, if you want. I mean,’ Louise added, backtracking over the usual eggshells, but too late, ‘that’d be nice, but you don’t have to.’

Juliet didn’t answer immediately, and not just because she wanted to make her sister uncomfortable. She liked Toby, and he was hardly on the Kelly scale of feral, but she wasn’t totally confident about her toddler-minding capabilities. How much damage could he do to himself?

You could always take him round to Emer’s, pointed out a voice in her head.

Emer and Juliet were on tentative ‘dropping in’ terms, after Emer had invited herself in for coffee a few days ago with a box of biscuits ‘she wasn’t meant to be eating’. She had ended up staying three hours, telling her about washing blouses for various Britpop legends until Roisin came round to get her. Minton had curled up by her bare, green-polished toes; always a good sign.

Maybe it was the date part. The last time she and Louise had talked, before Ben died, Peter’s lack of dating behaviour had been, well . . . a real problem. Had something changed?

Well,
yes
, she reminded herself. Ben’s death had probably revitalised their marriage at the same time as it had destroyed hers. Just one of the many outrageous side effects of the unfairness she had to live with and everyone else seemed to use as a helpful
carpe diem
lesson.

‘I’m supposed to be going round to feed Mrs Cox’s cats at six,’ she began.

‘Come after that,’ said Louise. ‘How will the cats know if it’s six? Do they have watches?’

‘They have a routine,’ said Juliet. She squinted at a tree that had burst into flower since the last time she’d passed; amazing how impatient nature could be. I must ask Ben what kind of—

‘Can’t you ask Peter’s mum?’ she blurted out, to fill the space in her head where that thought was going.

‘I could, but I’d like you to do it,’ said Louise, unexpectedly, and the weariness in her voice cut through Juliet’s barriers.

‘Fine, OK. How long for?’

‘It won’t be late. We’re both shattered – I bet we leave before pudding. If we don’t fall asleep in it! To be honest, I’d rather someone took Toby out for dinner and we got to go to bed at seven!’

Juliet noted that Louise was doing her condescending voice – the over-cheerful one she put on while trying to pretend that the fantastic thing she had was actually a bit of a trial, so she wouldn’t feel jealous. Baby, job, car that needed expensive servicing. Boo hoo, not. It was actually more irritating than plain boasting.

Louise sounded more strained than normal. Maybe it wasn’t just put on, though. It almost sounded as if she was trying to convince herself.

‘It’s nice that you’re going on a date,’ said Juliet. ‘Romantic table for two, is it?’

‘Yes. We’re . . . Peter’s making a bit more effort.’

‘Isn’t it a bit late for that?’

As soon as she said it, Juliet knew it was a low blow, and she felt bad, but it was too late to take it back, and Louise wasn’t helping by being so dignified.

Awkward.

Someone was waving at her from the top of the hill, where the paths forked off on the different nature trails.

Juliet squinted. The sun had finally come out from behind the grey clouds and was streaming through the lacy treetops. It was a man, a man with a spaniel.

She recognised the spaniel immediately – it was Damson. Her owner had obviously identified her by the dogs dragging her along.

Juliet swapped Coco’s lead into her other hand, tucked the phone under her ear and waved back. Louise had got herself back on track by wittering on about feeding times and other stuff, and the man was walking towards her, covering the ground quite fast.

This time, Juliet reckoned she’d have recognised him without the spaniel clue; his ruffled hair was familiar, as were his glasses and his Barbour jacket with the zip-lock bag of treats poking out. Tell-tale dog-owner sign. He was smiling too, in preparation for saying hi.

The thought of on-the-spot conversation gave her the usual frisson of panic. Juliet calculated she had about two minutes to get off the phone, put her headphones in and appear absorbed in her audiobook of
Emma
, if she didn’t want to look rude.

‘. . . about six?’ Louise finished up.

‘Yeah, fine,’ said Juliet, fingering her earphones. Should she? Shouldn’t she?

He was nearer now. The man pointed at Damson, then at the coffee stand, made a drinky-drinky gesture.

‘Great,’ said Louise. ‘Toby’s looking forward to it already! Is there anything you’d like me to leave in the fridge for your supper?’

‘Whatever. I don’t mind. I don’t eat much.’ Louise was ticking off precious seconds of thinking time with her stupid questions about whether Juliet was getting enough vitamins, and then, before she could gather her excuses, Louise had rung off and Damson and Mark (it was Mark, wasn’t it? thought Juliet, racking her brains. Or Luke? He looked like a Mark) were near enough for Hector to start barking whatever the dog equivalent of ‘Hello, darlin’, nice legs’ was at Damson.

‘Stop it,’ she hissed. ‘You are dragging me into—’

Too late. He was right there.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Sorry about him. I haven’t walked the attitude out of him yet today.’

‘Oh, he’s just being friendly,’ said Mark. ‘What a gorgeous day, eh? I shouldn’t have come out in this –’ he flicked at his jacket – ‘but it’s got all the bits and pieces in it, and I couldn’t be bothered unloading it all.’

‘You should do what I do and just have black plastic bags in every single coat,’ said Juliet. ‘I even found one in my pocket at . . .’

She was about to say, ‘at my husband’s funeral’. God, that had nearly finished her off. She’d held it together quite well up till then, but when she’d pulled the stray poo bag out along with the gloves she needed for the freezing churchyard, all Juliet had been able to think of was Minton’s paws clicking away on the floorboards at night, searching the house for his master when he thought she was asleep.

‘. . . at my nephew’s christening,’ she finished. Because that was true too. ‘Came in handy for getting rid of some pukey baby wipes.’

‘A hundred and one uses! Do you fancy a coffee?’ he asked. ‘I was hoping to see you, actually – there’s something I wanted to ask.’

He smiled hopefully as he spoke, and Juliet let herself be steered towards the stand.

Just do it, she told herself. Just have the coffee and talk for five minutes and it’s another five minutes over, and another conversation done, and another step nearer to normality.

After some lead-juggling, they were soon holding too-hot cappuccinos and waiting a little awkwardly for change. Mark grinned nervously at her while the coffee girl counted his change from a twenty-pound note.

‘Am I right in thinking you’re a dog-walker?’ he asked, as they set off slowly around the flowerbed paths.

‘Well, not
professionally
,’ Juliet began, then heard Louise’s voice in the back of her mind.
Don’t be so negative
. How else was she going to afford to eat, if she was still avoiding Kim’s calls and pleading unreliability? And she had to take Coco and Hector out anyway.

‘I’m just starting up,’ she said, in a different, more Louise tone. ‘I’ve just got two dogs at the moment, and some cats.’

‘So you might have time to walk Damson?’

‘Don’t you walk her enough yourself?’ She didn’t add, ‘I see you most days,’ in case that made her look a bit . . . stalkery.

‘I do. I mean, I did.’ Mark sipped his coffee and made a face. ‘My job’s changed and I’m in the office three days a week now. My ex has decided she doesn’t want custody of Damson any more – never really wanted a dog, apparently – so we’re in a bit of a fix, aren’t we, Dam?’

He glanced down at Damson, walking close to Coco’s substantial side for sisterly support. ‘My next-door neighbour’s been popping in to let her out at lunchtime, but she doesn’t want to make it a regular thing. I can’t blame her. I don’t want to put Damson in kennels for the day when she just needs a run at lunchtime. She’ll happily sleep the rest of the day if she’s tired, and she gets on with your lot, so . . .’

He raised his blond eyebrows, just like the antiques man on telly did when he was trying to persuade a couple to take a risk on a vase. ‘I’m happy to pay the going rate. Whatever that is.’

‘Of course,’ said Juliet, as if she already knew what that was. ‘Which days?’

‘Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday?’

‘That might work,’ said Juliet. ‘I’d have to check the diary.’

Mark seemed relieved. ‘Great! What’s the routine? Do I drop her off?’

‘Well,’ said Juliet, feeling she ought to sound semi-organised, ‘Hector’s owner gives me a set of keys and I pick him up, walk him, then take him back, check he’s got some water and leave him to nap. But she’s not far from me. Don’t worry,’ she added, ‘I’ve got one of those secure key cupboards, with proper locks.’ Ben had had one, for his clients’ house keys. ‘Where do you live?’

‘Down by the canal. Riverside Walk.’

Ooh, thought Juliet. The nice new-build houses. Executive.

‘OK,’ she said, thinking on her feet. ‘Give me your number and I’ll give you a call.’

It occurred to Juliet, as he was writing down his details, that it’d be a good time to clear up the name thing.

But as usual, like all owners, he’d written,
Damson
, his number and his address.

And as usual, she just smiled, embarrassed, and said, ‘Great!’

Chapter 12

It was amazing, thought Juliet, the things you could find out about a person just from feeding their pets.

For a start, Mrs Cox was a widow, with a near-biblical horde of grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and a massively sweet tooth if the catering-size boxes of Thorntons toffee in her pantry were anything to go by. She had three entire shelves of tinned sardines, one of pilchards and a separate washing machine for the cats. And she kept all the supermarkets’ special-offer vouchers clipped to clothes pegs along her kitchen window to remind her to use them.

It was almost like being on a daytime-television programme, Juliet thought, going round the geranium baskets in the sitting room with a watering can, as requested by Mrs Cox in her note. All the fun of looking at someone else’s house, but without the actual ‘having to talk to them’ bit, or paying £4.80 for an interiors magazine. Perfect.

Well, she had to talk to the cats. They seemed to expect a bit of conversation from the regal way they were staring at her.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked Bianca, through a mouthful of treacle toffee (‘Help yourself to tea, coffee, et cetera!’). ‘You seem a bit down. Are you missing your mum?’

Boris definitely seemed sadder than he had done the last time she’d seen him. There was a droop to his eyes that hadn’t been there before, and his tail looked . . . less powder-puffy. Juliet wasn’t an expert on cats, but he looked almost deflated.

‘What’s up, chaps?’ she asked, concerned. ‘You haven’t even touched your salmon.’

She put down the watering can and jiggled the Wedgwood saucers on the side, piled with freshly mashed red salmon (proper John West, not supermarket own brand), but neither cat showed so much as a flicker of interest.

‘Is it the wrong temperature?’ enquired Juliet. ‘Did I get the wrong bowls? Maybe you’d prefer it on the floor?’

No response.

Juliet frowned and pulled the new red file out of her satchel. No doubt tipped off by Diane, the pet-sitting pimp, Louise had dropped round a load of office stationery: clear plastic wallets for instructions, different-coloured pens and receipt books and labels. Everything but poo bags, basically.

‘You’ve got to get organised,’ she’d bossed, in classic Louise style. ‘It’ll instil confidence in your clients.’

‘Clients? I’m not exactly—’

‘You’ve got to show you’re taking it seriously.’ Louise had looked quite fierce, especially dressed in her court suit. ‘When you’re caring for someone else’s loved one, whether it’s a cat or a baby, they want to feel they’re in safe hands.’

There’d been a short pause, and Juliet had wondered if she was supposed to speak, but Louise suddenly added, ‘You’re doing something really useful here, Juliet. You’re making a difference to people’s lives. Go, you!’

Juliet couldn’t stop herself. ‘
Go, you?
’ she’d repeated incredulously. ‘How long have you been back at work?’

Louise had grimaced at herself. ‘OK, maybe that doesn’t work out of the office, but we’re proud of you. Me and Mum. You’re, you know, getting out.’

She didn’t actually say, ‘Moving on,’ but Juliet knew that was a prelude to the usual lecture-in-disguise about having the rest of her life ahead of her, and frankly she hadn’t had the energy for it, after an afternoon encounter between Hector and someone’s sexually ambiguous old English sheepdog.

If she’d had more energy, she’d have done something about this weird tension between them, but it was too big, and she wasn’t sure where to start.

Luckily Louise had dashed off to collect Toby from the nursery, and that had been that.

Juliet flipped through the ‘Daily Routines’ file until she came to Mrs Cox’s printed directions for the care of Bianca and Boris. It wasn’t a big file: so far only Hector, the cats and Coco had pages, but the way Diane was giving out her details, it would soon be full. Scraps of paper with details of summer holidays and addresses flopped about in the empty sleeves, waiting for Juliet to follow them up.

‘“Bianca likes Radio Four,”’ Juliet read aloud. ‘“Boris prefers silence, so make sure two rooms have the radio on and two don’t.”’

She looked up. Boris had wandered off, and Bianca was sniffing at the salmon as if Juliet had laced it with anti-freeze.

‘Are you lonely?’ she asked. ‘Are you bored? Am I supposed to eat at the same time?’

Bianca turned her flat face away from the saucer, like a prima ballerina doing the Dying Swan.

‘I’m really sorry,’ said Juliet, feeling she was failing badly in quite a simple task. ‘I’ve never had a cat. I’m more of a dog person. I want to help, but . . .’