Lost Dogs and Lonely Hearts (9 page)

Though the market town was quite busy, from what she remembered, the landscape quickly turned rural beyond the kennels: the lane running past the back gate went towards the town one way, and out into the thick woodlands the other, after which were fields of cows and the beginnings of some unassuming hills.

‘We usually do this loop that goes through the wood, down to the town, around the park and back,’ said Megan, setting off on a bridle-path hedged with rowan and gorse. She was steering four dogs on two double leads like a charioteer. ‘If you want, I’ll throw some balls while you have a quick run round, and do any shopping you need? Quite a few shops are open today.’

‘Thanks.’ Rachel looked down at her black Joseph trousers, now tucked into the boots for protection. ‘I could do with getting some spare clothes. I didn’t bring much that’s up to dog walking.’

‘I’ve got to warn you, the shops won’t be what you’re used to in London.’ Megan smiled. ‘Maybe you should ask George what sort you should get, since he’s the one who seems so concerned about them?’

‘I don’t take fashion advice from a man who wears red trousers,’ said Rachel, spurred into a better mood by the spring air. ‘They’ve been illegal since 1938 in most parts of Britain.’

Megan giggled. ‘I’ll tell him that, shall I? It’s about time he got a taste of his own medicine. Oi, Tinker! Out of there. Just pull him gently, Rachel.’

‘His own medicine?’ Rachel tugged Tinker out of a bush, terrified she was about to break him. ‘Are you saying I’m as rude as he is?’

‘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.’