Walking Back to Happiness (24 page)

‘I suppose it’s down to going off KitKats at last. And not being able to bake any more,’ she went on. She’d had a couple of covert attempts at some biscuits that week, but her touch was still deserting her. They’d been rock hard, or burned, or soggy. Not even Coco fancied them, and Juliet had tipped them into the bin, crestfallen. ‘As well as schlepping round town with you and your mates. And misery, of course. That helps.’

He wagged his tail, pleased to be talked to.

It was nice to be on her own with Minton, thought Juliet, instead of having to steer other dogs around him, and he seemed happy to have her to himself too. They passed a couple of familiar faces by the coffee stand – Wild Dog Café Owner with Bertie, and Man Who Looked Like Bill Nighy with Border Collie – and Juliet found herself saying hello, because she didn’t have her iPod earphones in.

For once, she didn’t feel herself curling away inside. Juliet even managed a ‘Gorgeous day’ to the Café Owner, and found out, painlessly, that the mobile coffee stand she visited so often was owned by the same café, and that Bertie was four. If Bertie hadn’t been pulling like a train towards the woods, a conversation might even have broken out.

The coffee stand was doubling as a mobile ice cream parlour during the summer holidays. Juliet never used to eat ice cream – it was one thing she deliberately never let herself get a taste for, like hot chocolate in winter, which she used as a sop to keep her weight under a metric ton. But now, walking over twenty thousand paces a day according to her mother’s pedometer, a Magnum seemed like the least she owed herself in such warm weather.

She was tucking into an almond one when she heard someone shouting her name from the other side of the rose beds.

‘Juliet!’

Minton looked up from the water bowl next to the freezer, ears twitching.

She turned round. The park was quite full, of shoppers and children on scooters, and older people enjoying the sun. Juliet wasn’t sure now that she wanted to be found; this was a private ice cream moment. Was it too late for the earphones?

Yes, it was. A man was rushing up to her, linen jacket flapping as he ran, a satchel bouncing at his side. Also, a spaniel.

It was Mark, with Damson.

‘I’m glad I caught you.’ Mark panted a couple of times, then straightened up, embarrassed by his flushed cheeks. ‘Sorry! You can tell I’m not walking Damson so much any more. You haven’t taken your money for the week.’

‘You didn’t leave it,’ said Juliet, hastily wiping chocolate off her chin. ‘I was going to say something . . .’

‘It was in the hall. On the side by the keys. Oooch.’ Mark was trying to talk and not show how hard he was panting at the same time. ‘Hang on.’ He turned round, took a couple of deep breaths, then turned back.

Was that for my benefit? wondered Juliet. Quite flattering if it was.

‘It’s this hot weather,’ she said. ‘I have to stop halfway up the hill for a breather. And I never go into the hall.’ She paused. ‘You leave the back-door key. I don’t go traipsing through people’s houses.’

‘Traipse all you like. I don’t mind. I can’t believe you left that sweet note from Damson and didn’t add, “Where’s my effing money?” at the bottom of it!’ he said.

‘I wouldn’t do that.’ Juliet blushed. ‘And I hope you didn’t mind the note, but I think she needs some help. She’s not used to being on her own.’

‘I know.’ Mark looked guilty. ‘My neighbours have said she’s been barking all day. I guess I was hoping she’d just . . . I don’t know, learn I was coming back?’ he ended hopefully.

‘Well, yeah. If you could tell them stuff, it would be much easier.’ She glanced down at Minton. Damson was licking the water off his chin in a maternal fashion; he was enduring it with a stoic politeness that melted Juliet’s heart. ‘He still waits for Ben. I’d give anything to be able to speak dog for five minutes.’

‘What would you tell him?’

Juliet opened her mouth, then shut it ruefully. ‘Probably the clichéd stuff people tell me, about heaven being full of everyone you love, plus celebs, and time being a healer.’

‘And that he needs to get out and meet new people?’

‘Now come on, he’s been doing that already!’ She blinked in the sunshine, unable to read Mark’s face properly in the light.

‘Can I get you another one of those?’ he asked, nodding at the ice-cream freezer.

‘I’m fine with this one, thanks.’ Juliet angled her head and pretended to look serious. ‘Were you going to take it out of my walking money?’

‘No! Let me give that to you now, before I forget.’ He took out his wallet immediately and rifled through the notes. He had more cards than Juliet did, and a photograph of a baby tucked in the side.

It took her by surprise; it hadn’t even occurred to her that Mark might be a dad. There was no sign of any baby stuff in the house, not like at Louise’s. Juliet felt a strange flutter at the thought of him with a child in tow. Then she kicked herself. How addled was her brain, falling for the worst daddy-with-buggy clichés? Fatherhood hadn’t made Peter any sexier.

Anyway, it might be a niece or nephew. He might be a doting uncle, like she was a doting aunt.

‘Here.’ Mark handed her some cash. ‘For this week and next. And can I get a mint Magnum, please?’ he said, turning to the girl at the stand.

Juliet liked his tone. Friendly, educated. Polite.

They walked up the rose-garden side of the park together, Juliet trying to finish the tricky last part of her ice cream without getting it all over herself and Mark eating his, in quick neat bites, no messing. The scent drifted off the spread-eagled flowers, and Juliet found herself noting the difference since the last time she’d been there, when the yellow buds were tightly wrapped. Three days of sun had changed everything so quickly.

‘You know you were saying you were a Longhampton girl?’ Mark dropped his stick into a litter bin. ‘Would you mind sharing your expertise with me one night next month? I know it’s a way off yet – in August – but I’m assuming your diary’s going to be pretty full round then.’

‘For what?’ Juliet didn’t say no straight away – some progress – but she was still wary of committing. There was a lot of good telly coming up.

‘A mate of mine’s organising an exhibition of photography, all taken round here. He’s invited me to the private view, opening, whatever you call it, and I said I’d go, but I’ve only been here a couple of years, so the lovely moody shots of the precinct are going to be wasted on me.’ He glanced over and looked conspiratorial. ‘I need someone to slip me some good lines about the way the photographer’s captured the true spirit of the recreation ground.’

‘Blimey,’ said Juliet. ‘Has he got one of the cars on fire they have down there? It’s nearly an annual occurrence, just after the schools break up.’

Mark feigned horror. ‘I think it’s more
Moonlight on Coneygreen Woods
. He didn’t mention war reporting.’

They walked on a few steps and the question hung in the air. Juliet felt he was waiting for her to say yes or no. Well, not no. She could hardly say no, she’d have to come up with some convincing excuse. The trouble was, she couldn’t think of one that didn’t involve television or staying in to tile the bathroom with her builder, both of which sounded faintly insulting.

And a tiny little flattered voice in her head was pointing out that it might be quite nice.

‘Which day is it?’ she asked.

‘Fifteenth of August. A Thursday. It’s a school night, so it won’t be late. And I know Chris is convinced no one will come, so even if you just pop along for half an hour, he’ll appreciate it. And did I mention the free wine?’ Mark looked cross with himself. ‘I might be overselling this.’

‘It sounds fun,’ said Juliet.

Fun?
Where had that come from?

‘Fantastic! It kicks off seven-ish, in the Memorial Hall. I can meet you there, and if it’s really awful, I’ll take you for pizza or something to apologise.’

‘OK,’ said Juliet. It was a few weeks away, so gave her time to drop out if she couldn’t face it. That was the joy of pet-sitting. You could always invent an emergency dachshund.

‘Great.’ Mark pushed his glasses up his nose, with a smile. Um, I’ll see you there! Well, I’ll see you before, probably, won’t I? Either around, or at home, or . . .’

‘Yes! Yes, of course . . .’

They were both a bit flustered now. Mark hadn’t said it, but they’d both heard the word ‘date’ ringing out.

Juliet had read the chapter about new relationships in all her bereavement guides with a sense of detachment, because she couldn’t actively imagine starting a new relationship. It was like seeing St Paul’s Cathedral flattened in front of you and then being handed the plans to rebuild it. Technically doable, yes, but what was the point? You’d never get it as good as Christopher Wren, and it’d never be over three hundred years old. Not in your lifetime, anyway.

But even in her still-numb state, she felt a tingle of excitement that someone was asking her out. Excitement and nerves and a nostalgic fear that she hadn’t felt since she was a teenager, although Mark was no teenager. He was an adult, with complicated domestic arrangements, and an air of attractive competence that she’d never have put on her old list of irresistible qualities, but which she now found oddly exciting.

Then, as now, Juliet hadn’t known how to handle the awkward seconds after the date-asking, and she had to fight not to blurt out some stupid reason to back out.

Luckily, the universe intervened and her phone started ringing in her bag.

‘Ah! Are you late to collect another canine client?’ asked Mark.

‘If I am, I’m really late.’ Juliet scrabbled in her bag. ‘I didn’t think I had one . . . Hello?’

‘Juliet? It’s Emer.’ She sounded flustered.

‘Hello, Emer.’

‘Lorcan says you’re a chef.’

‘I’m a caterer,’ said Juliet, aware of Mark taking it in.

‘What’s the difference?’

‘I make large quantities of edible food and I don’t ponce around in a jacket with my name embroidered on it.’ That was her usual defence of her job, against Louise’s glittering career; if Louise had been in catering, she’d have clawed her way up to qualified cordon bleu levels.

Juliet realised that maybe Emer needed her to cook something. The prospect of being summoned to cater a dinner party for rock chick Emer on her current form made her feel sick. ‘But actually, Emer, I’m not—’

‘Brilliant!’ There was a lot of noise going on in the background: Salvador’s bass guitar backed with some louder yelling. ‘Do you do kids’ parties?’

‘Not as a rule, no.’ Juliet made an apologetic face at Mark, who waved it away. ‘And I’m not—’

‘Can you do one? I’m . . . Oh, hang on, Lorcan wants a word.’

The phone was passed over and Lorcan’s familiar voice came on. ‘Juliet, it’s chaos here. We’ve a situation unfolding.’

‘There’s always a situation unfolding at yours.’

‘This one’s DEFCON One. Crap Dad One, actually. Alec was supposed to be flying in today for Spike’s birthday. Special occasion, lots of kids coming, caterers booked. Only he’s flown in and passed out, and we can’t find the caterer’s details, and to be honest, I don’t think there ever was one, the useless fecker, because he texted me this morning to ask where you could get a birt’day cake near Heathrow Airport.’

Lorcan’s voice got progressively less jolly and more Irish as he went on, and Juliet suspected he’d walked away from wherever Emer was so he could give full vent to his annoyance.

‘Can you help us out?’ he asked. ‘I’ll give you all the money in Alec’s wallet, which is a lot, believe me.’

Juliet shrank inside. The noise was bad enough down the phone; she had no concept of how loud it would be in real life. And emergency cooking in someone else’s kitchen? She
hated
that. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to just get a load of stuff in from M&S?’

‘It would, but to be honest with you, Emer’s in no state to leave the house. She’s mad at Alec, and she’s had a glass of wine on top of her hayfever tablet,
she says
, and . . .’ Lorcan sounded worried. ‘I need someone who knows what they’re doing. And you are that woman. Please. I’ve poisoned entire bands with my quiches.
Please
. My next phone call’s to the police. To have myself arrested for the night, so I can get out of here.’

Juliet glanced across at Mark, who was crouching down, stroking Minton while Damson hovered next to him. The contrast between the calm of invite-only private views that end of the phone and E number induced hysteria at the other was almost surreal.

It’s kids’ food. How hard is that? It’s sandwiches and Swiss rolls, she thought. I suppose I could cook it in my own kitchen. And if they’re fed, they’ll be quieter. And I do owe Emer for the Boris-washing . . .

‘Fine,’ she sighed. ‘But only for you, Lorcan. As a thank-you for the shower and the tiles.’

‘Good girl. Are you in town? Twenty boys arriving in two hours. He wants a cake like a spaceship and green sausages.’ Lorcan’s tone turned super-efficient.

‘Two hours? I can’t do green sausages in two hours.’

Mark looked up, surprised. She rolled her eyes.

‘Any sausages will be fine, Emer says.’

‘Better get a move on, then,’ she said. ‘I’ll be by the big Sainsbury’s.’

Thirty minutes later, Lorcan and Juliet staggered into the kitchen under the weight of twenty-one carrier bags of party food.

‘Alec’s passed out? With this going on?’ she yelled over the sound of bass guitar and trumpet. It sounded like a trumpet, anyway.

‘He could sleep through a Metallica gig. And he has done.’ Lorcan pulled the sitting-room door shut with his foot and the noise dropped by half a decibel. ‘I think the eejit took an Ambien to sleep in the car on the way back and it’s knocked him out cold.’

‘He was driving?’

‘Nooo.’ Lorcan looked amused at her naivety. ‘He had a car from the airport. The band paid for him to come back for tonight. It’s in his contract – he gets to fly back for his children’s birthdays. He didn’t ask for that,’ he went on, barging through to the kitchen. ‘Emer did. She refuses to face them alone. Hi, we’re back!’