Lost Dogs and Lonely Hearts (16 page)

‘What on earth was that about?’ demanded Rachel in a low tone. ‘We don’t offer doggie daycare!’

‘It’s a great idea!’ Megan insisted. ‘It’s an easy way of making some cash! Look, it’s not much more work – puppies that age don’t need walking, he could be in the office with Freda, or round the house with you.’

‘Yes!’ hissed Rachel. ‘Peeing all over the place! ’

‘Ah, we’ll have him trained in no time, he’s a Lab. They’re smart. You just have to be firm.’

Rachel sighed. There wasn’t much point in arguing with Megan, she knew that already.

‘Well, I suppose it’s a way of keeping that run clear,’ she conceded. ‘And we can charge her something. Although if she hasn’t got any money for a walker, I don’t suppose she’s going to have much for doggie daycare?’

Megan folded her arms. ‘Rachel, I don’t know how much you know about these things, but let me tell you, pedigree Labrador puppies like that don’t come cheap. If the stupid two-timing bastard ex can afford to sling several hundred quid for an Andrex puppy, he can deffo afford the babysitting.’

‘How do you know she’s got a two-timing bastard ex?’

‘Fine, so I was eavesdropping.’ Megan looked sheepish. ‘All the stuff about not wanting to upset the kids, I know where she’s coming from, she’s obviously a good person.’ She shrugged and her plaits bounced. ‘We should cut her some slack – she wasn’t expecting a dog. All first-time owners freak out for the first few weeks. They’re like new mums.’

Rachel looked down at the sink, where piles of metal dog bowls were stacked, ready for tea time. It was terrifying, the speed at which the kennel routine had imprinted itself on her brain. ‘Yes, fine. Fine. OK, well, let’s go and talk to her.’

‘Thanks!’ said Megan. ‘I appreciate it!’

‘What for? It’s your great idea.’ Rachel gave Megan a reluctant smile. ‘Look, if you want to set that up, you can, you know, run it. I won’t tell George you’re angling to get even more dogs in here.’

‘Oh God, don’t do that!’ Megan slipped into her George impression as they made their way back to the office. ‘ “You have to say no and mean it, Megan!” You’d say no fast enough if it were peeing on your leg, wouldn’t you? Think about it!’’ ’

‘That’s not a bad local accent for an Aussie,’ said Rachel.

‘I hear it often enough,’ Megan replied with a grimace. ‘Especially the “think about it!” part.’

By the time Zoe and Toffee left, several cups of tea later, Rachel was convinced the business world had missed a ruthless star in Megan.

In return for a week of doggie daycare, she’d persuaded Zoe to pay them for two days in cash (which Megan would pocket), and then give both her and Rachel one free haircut per month plus some ‘colour guidance’ in lieu of the rest. Zoe would also volunteer for the dog-walking efforts on Saturday and teach Megan some tricks of the trade about shampooing.

Everyone was happy. It wasn’t so different from the dodgier deals Rachel had done herself at work, to get her computer fixed.

‘I reckon she got herself a bargain there,’ said Megan, as they began measuring out the evening kibble, rattling it into the metal bowls.

‘She didn’t. You have no idea how high maintenance my hair is.’ Rachel had to raise her voice above the excited baying. ‘It takes a lot of work to get it looking so casual.’

‘The grey streaks are highlights?’

‘Shut up, cheeky.’ Rachel gave Megan a nudge. ‘Leave the fashion tips to Mr Fenwick.’

‘Well, I guess this means you’ll have to stay now, to get your money’s worth,’ said Megan. ‘What? At least two months?’ She looked innocent, but Rachel detected a hint of nosiness under her usual demeanour. Freda had doubtless put her up to it.

‘Suppose I will,’ she said, then sighed. ‘There’s so much to do.’

There was, as well. She’d only just got round to calling an estate agent to value the property, and hadn’t even opened the letter Dot had left her, no doubt outlining all the irritating minor bequests she’d have to sort out. And then there were the cupboards. Dot hadn’t had Val’s obsession with annual clear-outs and lining paper.

Of course, when it was finished, that’s when the real decisions would have to start. To sell, or stay? To go back to London or move on? To start again . . . where?

When you put it like that, sorting out Dot’s creaking Victorian sideboards wasn’t such a terrible alternative. The problem was, how long could one house take to sort?

9

Natalie’s bad day started with someone else’s good news. Johnny’s mother called before she was even properly awake, to inform them that his sister Becky was pregnant with her third baby.

There were moments when Natalie honestly thought she was some kind of fertility totem, but just for other people. Everywhere she went, babies popped up in her wake, like mushrooms.

‘I’m going to be a granny again!’ Sheila screeched down the phone, clearly on her fourth coffee of the morning. ‘I’ve told Becky I want a girl, because I’ve got drawers and drawers of pretty clothes to pass on! And that would make two of each, which is nice and neat, isn’t it? Due on Jacob’s first birthday too! As I said to our Michael, talk about the Hodges – only have to wink at each other to have us all down at Mothercare!’

At that point, Johnny had seen her face and wrestled the kitchen phone off her, but it was too late. Natalie knew she hadn’t made the right noises, so she’d had to send twice as big a bunch of flowers to prove she really was happy for Becky and Steve. Yet another nephew or niece, yet another bloody christening where she’d have to hear all those ‘you ought to get a move on’ and ‘it’ll be your turn soon’ comments.

She left Johnny talking on the phone, and busied herself making complicated coffee in their shiny espresso machine, but Natalie couldn’t stop her ears tuning into the muted conversation he was making. After all this time, she could fill in the blanks with depressing ease. It was a conversation he and his mother seemed to have a lot – not so much a conversation as a game of polite chess.

‘Yes . . . things are absolutely fine . . . Not the best time to talk about this, is it, Mum! . . . Of course not . . . She’s very busy at work, well, we both are . . . Mum, Natalie’s just been promoted, it wouldn’t be . . . Come on, you
know
that’s not true . . .’

Natalie’s shoulders slumped.
What’s wrong with Natalie,
that’s what Sheila would be asking. It’s what everyone was asking, when they weren’t making jokes about whether she and Johnny were actually remembering to have sex. Talk about making a choice – was it better to look like a selfish career bitch, or a barren sex-avoider?

Natalie’s lip trembled, but she looked at herself in their hallway mirror, stylish in her new suit, and reminded her reflection that there was more to her than just her uterus. She’d single-handedly brought in more business in the last year than anyone else in her department. Without stamping on any toes or resorting to sneaky lunches. That was something to be proud of, wasn’t it? Didn’t supporting your family and establishing your career count for anything any more? Was this what feminism had come to?

‘Look, Mum, just tell Becky we’re both thrilled for her and Steve and I’ll give her a call when I get in from school tonight . . .’

Johnny’s voice got louder as he walked back into the hall with the phone. Natalie blinked hard to squeeze back any tears, and she put on a bright smile that she already knew looked fake.

‘OK.’ He strode past the kitchen, making loopy gestures around his head. ‘Yes, it’s wonderful. We’ll see you at the weekend, then? Yes, Nat sends her love to you too. Bye, Mum. Bye.’

‘Coffee?’ said Natalie, holding out a mug, her voice a little too high. ‘It’s decaf.’

Johnny looked at her for a second, a strange expression on his face, then silently he took the mug off her and put it on the side.

Natalie gazed back at him, trying not to cry. ‘I’m really pleased for Becky,’ she began, but Johnny cut her off, holding out his arms so she could bury her head into his chest.

‘Come here.’ Johnny wrapped his arms around her so tight she thought her ribcage might crack. They stood, swaying slightly, in the beautifully decorated hallway, not saying anything for a moment or two.

‘I love you,’ he murmured, burying his face into her freshly blow-dried hair. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not fair. I know. But our turn will come, I promise.’

Natalie didn’t say anything, because she could feel an unusual grimness about his love for her and in her bleak mood, it warmed her in a way that his sweetness wouldn’t have done. The harsh realities of life that made her hurt inside just seemed to glance off him: Johnny was one of those honest souls who believed everything would work out, eventually. She couldn’t see life like that.

This morning, though, he seemed to sense her despair, and she felt closer to him, like they were clinging together on the same lifeboat. It didn’t matter how hard they tried or how much they wanted their baby – it was in the hands of something else.

‘Come on,’ she said, pulling away after a few moments. ‘I need to get to work. Something’s up with Selina – I got an email at seven this morning asking for a confidential meeting.’

He held her at arm’s length, examining her face. His boyish face was confused. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Could be a promotion?’ Natalie went on, brightly. ‘Or a transfer?’

If I can’t have a family, she thought, I’m going to have the best possible career. I am going to
fight
these job cuts.

Johnny smiled sadly.

‘Redundancy?’

Natalie stared across the desk, and furrowed her brow. This wasn’t the way she’d anticipated the meeting going. At least, not within the opening minute of the conversation.

Selina made her non-binding nodding gesture of agreement, the one that Natalie had seen her make to so many unsuccessful new clients, most of whom didn’t even recognise it as a brush-off until they were leaving.

‘Regrettably, yes. But you have to look at it in a positive framework – you’re getting a very generous redundancy package, and with your references and connections . . .’ She emphasised the shrugging gesture, as if she was actually rather jealous of Natalie’s situation. ‘It’s more than a lot of our staff are looking at, Natalie.’

‘Can I ask . . .’ Natalie swallowed as her heartbeat went into panic. ‘Can I ask why you’re letting
me
go? My appraisal at the end of last year was really positive. I’ve achieved all the goals we discussed, and I thought—’

Selina held up her hand, as if she didn’t want either of them to be embarrassed.

‘I don’t need to tell you that we’re suffering from the global downturn. It was an impossible decision, working out where we could make staff cuts. We had many factors to consider – length of contracts, financial responsibilities, long-term team players . . . And then there’s the maternity leave issue.’ Selina paused. ‘We could hardly make Fiona redundant halfway through her maternity leave – we’d be sued to high heaven!’

‘But you could let
me
go,’ said Natalie incredulously. ‘Because what? I
don’t
have dependants?’

‘Because, off the record, you are the candidate who will walk straight into another job.’ Selina turned over her palms, as if she were presenting Natalie’s future to her like a gift. ‘It’s a small industry. I have no doubt I’ll be seeing you again before too long. And in the meantime, have some fun! Relax! Take this as an unexpected sabbatical. You’ve got holiday outstanding, haven’t you? You could be in the Maldives by the weekend!’

And that was it. Her whole career, from fast-tracked graduate trainee until now, condensed into a five-minute ‘chat’.

Natalie felt sick, and for once she didn’t bother to count it as a possible pregnancy symptom.

She didn’t call Johnny straight away.

He would just tell her it was Fate and a lucky break in disguise, and Natalie, who didn’t believe in luck, just bloody hard work, wanted to wallow in the sheer unfairness of it for a few hours. So she got in her car and drove to the park, where she sat on a bench and stared at the mid-day Longhampton she’d never had time to see before. Old couples, kids eating chips on their lunchbreak, and – of course – herds of mummies ranging like fertile wildebeest across the park with their Bugaboos.

The mummies felt like a personal slap in the face. Why’d she been worrying about taking maternity leave at the right time when she should have been worrying about her
job
?

Maybe Johnny was right, thought Natalie, feeling a masochistic tug as two toddlers wobbled towards the Jubilee fountain. Maybe it was Fate – grabbing her and telling her to relax on full pay for five months. Everyone else was. When they weren’t telling her to drink grapefruit juice, get a pet, book a holiday, drink cough medicine, have sex every day, have sex every other day . . .

No, she decided,
just relax
was the worst. It was irritating on so many different levels. There was nothing in the world less relaxing than living at the mercy of your luteal phase. Anyway, Natalie wasn’t a ‘relaxing’ sort of person; one of the things she loved about Johnny was the fact that he didn’t mind trailing round castles and markets on holiday instead of baking on a beach.