George raised his hands, then turned away to start the hose. ‘Just a guess, that’s all! I know there’s nothing like a long walk with a good companion to get your problems aired to a sympathetic ear.’ She couldn’t see his face, because he was sluicing out the pen with practised sweeps of water, but his voice was conversational. ‘They’re great listeners, dogs. Never try to give you advice, unlike people.’
Rachel stared, open-mouthed.
‘You can add it to your PR campaign for the rehoming.’ He lifted one hand to draw an imaginary headline in the air. ‘Get a dog, skip the therapist. Better than a useless boyfriend.’
Now that was too close to home. Rachel stopped changing the water in the Staffies’ pen. Had Megan said something? About her leaving her job? About – her skin crawled – about Oliver?
I’ve got to put her straight about that, she thought, but even as the idea of confessing was passing across her brain, Rachel saw her lovely clean slate slipping away and she pressed her lips together. I’m not that old Rachel any more, she reminded herself. As of now, I’m just any other single thirty-something, making a fresh start.
And that fresh start began with focusing her attentions on men who were definitely not attached. Few men came as definitely unattached as George Fenwick.
‘Better than a useless girlfriend too,’ she retorted, arching her eyebrow. ‘Megan says there’s a space going by your fireside – have you met my gorgeous friend, Treacle the chocolate Labrador?’
‘I have indeed. Met her, whipped out her bits, put her on a diet. She’s a lovely girl, but not really my type.’
‘And what is your type?’
He paused, with the Westies’ water bowl in his hands. ‘Something with a mind of its own. Labs are lovely, but they’re a bit . . . passive. I don’t mind a bit of independence, now and again. A bit of cussedness, even.’
‘In that case, I should be introducing you to our broad range of grumpy terriers.’ Rachel gestured towards the yappy end of the runs, like a gameshow hostess. ‘Any colour you fancy, all very cussed.’
They were both standing clutching water bowls now, and Rachel wondered if the thermostat had gone onto night mode, because she was feeling a little hot.
‘I didn’t say I wanted grumpiness,’ said George. ‘Just a bit of a spark.’ He paused, and added, with a hint of a wink, ‘And good hips.’
The Daniel Craig thing was quite pronounced now. Either that or the overhead lighting was very flattering indeed, she thought.
‘By which I mean, no hip dysplasia,’ he added. ‘Bane of my life. Now, is that it?’ He turned his attention back to Chester, and lifted him and his basket up in one easy go. ‘We should get this chap somewhere quiet, and get you a drink. It looks like you need one.’
Since it was now going on eight, it seemed only fair to offer George some of the embarrassingly basic supper Rachel had planned to make for herself, and when he elbowed her out of the way, to ‘improve’ her attempts, she happily stood back and opened a bottle of wine, and watched him, impressed.
George moved around the kitchen with the same capable air he’d shown diagnosing Chester, who was now curled up in the crate in the warm utility room off the house kitchen. As George chopped and threw bits of garlic and salt and wine into the pan, he kept up a stream of questions – how was she finding the house? Had she been round the agility course with Gem? Had Freda told her the story about how Pippin once saved Ted’s life by carrying his heart pills into the bedroom when he forgot? And did she believe it?
Rachel sipped her wine and let the conversation ebb and flow naturally between them, feeling more and more at ease in his company. George actually listened to her answers, often firing off second and third questions. It was brisk, sometimes, but she liked it; she’d encountered plenty of closed-off people who used questions as a way of not revealing anything of themselves, but he wasn’t like that. George was happy to talk about his work in Longhampton, and made her laugh with his accounts of what the locals and their animals got up to – although, she noticed, he glossed courteously over names.
For every good-humoured jibe – ‘I could tell you were a big restaurant goer as soon as you tried to measure that spaghetti on the scales,’ he’d observed, rolling up his sleeves – there was a softer question, wrapped up in a gruff delivery.
‘How are you getting on with clearing out the house?’ he asked, setting down a piled plate in front of her. It smelled delicious. ‘Dealing with the kennels is bad enough, but it must be quite a strange job to tackle, sorting through your aunt’s personal life. On your own.’
‘I wish I’d known just how weird it was going to be.’ Rachel picked up her fork, and tried to tell herself to eat just half of the mammoth helping. ‘I always knew I didn’t know Dot very well, but now I wonder how well any of us knew her. If you know what I mean.’
‘Sort of. Aren’t you meant to be a professional wordsmith?’ George tucked into his spaghetti with gusto.
‘No, I’m a professional spinner and creator of good news,’ said Rachel. ‘Anyway, I can see now why people have children. You just tell them they can have half each and let them get on with stripping the house to the bones. It’s like my mum used to say – one cuts, the other chooses. I reckon that’s the fastest way to get probate done. If Dot had left half to my sister Amelia, there’d be removal vans and BBC Cash in the Attic experts lining up down the orchard.’
George laughed. ‘That’s the best solution I’ve heard so far.’ He looked up from his plate, and tipped his head to one side, suddenly serious. ‘If you need a hand, though, you’ll ask? Not just with the heavy lifting either.’
‘Yes.’ Rachel felt touched.
‘So, have you any future help lined up in that direction?’ he asked casually. ‘Children? Boyfriend? Partner . . . whatever you call them in London these days.’
‘No,’ said Rachel. ‘No kids.
Oliver had made that very clear; there would be no ‘accidental’ babies on his watch. His nappy days were behind him, he said, even though his third child – Jensen, stupid name – had arrived a year after he insisted he and Kath were no longer sharing a room. That had caused a legendary row. That was when she should have left, when she was just thirty-four, and still had time.
Her hand hesitated on the stem of her glass, as the memory cut across her mood, and George topped up her wine, taking it as a hint. ‘Not a baby person or a dog person, eh?’
‘Oh. Thanks. No, I like babies you can hand back.’ Rachel twisted her spaghetti round her fork with an expert knack. ‘I always say my biological clock must be digital, because I’ve never heard it ticking.’
It was a smart answer; one she’d given her mother before. And it was true, as far as she wanted to examine it. Since he’d asked such a personal question, Rachel felt entitled to bat it back. ‘How about you?’
George shook his head. ‘I hear you need to find a wife first? I do a eighty-hour week – it’s like I said, it wouldn’t be fair to get a dog, let alone a relationship. But I knew that when I went into vet school, so, unless I meet another vet . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I think that’s why vets used to have housekeepers.’
Rachel thought George’s answer sounded as well-practised as her own but he met her gaze as he trotted it out. ‘It’s an anti-social life,’ he went on, his blue eyes twinkling in the dim light, ‘probably a selfish one, but—’
‘You enjoy it. I know.’ Rachel knew exactly what he was hedging around. ‘It’s like you’re supposed to feel ashamed because you like your childless, high-pressure existence. I get it all the time. And when you try to explain that actually it’s very satisfying to work all night to bring in a major client, or be able to go to Venice at the drop of a ticket, or . . .’ She cast about for an equivalent vet thing. ‘Or save a sick pony or something, people just give you that sympathetic, “Oh, it’s because you don’t have children, you’re looking for a substitute in your work” look.’ She took a large sip of wine. ‘Well, hello. I’m sorry,
but it’s not a substitute. It’s what I want.’
‘Mmm.’ George looked amused at the other end of the table. ‘Maybe without the Venice trips. Have you seen the Longhampton canal? Very picturesque.’
‘You’ll have to take me.’
‘I’d love to.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Can’t promise gondoliers, but I can buy you a Cornetto.’
‘That’s a date.’ Rachel smiled and had to look down when he smiled back, because the crackle in the air when their eyes met was too much.
She glanced at him, taking in the sardonic half-smile and the defiantly unfashionable checked shirt. The wine and the mood and the easy conversation was making her feel relaxed, and yet not very relaxed at the same time.
George gestured towards the pasta. ‘Is it OK? It’s been a while since I cooked for two.’
Rachel’s lips tingled as she met his gaze and she felt conscious of herself – her expression, her clothes, her mouth – in a way she hadn’t for a long time. George wasn’t handsome, not like Oliver, but he had something that made her feel they’d known each other before.
‘How long have you been cooking for one?’ she asked casually.
‘Oh . . .’ George pretended to think. ‘Years.’
‘Doesn’t show in your cooking. This is delicious.’
‘I’m flattered. You’re the sort of girl who’s always being taken out, rather than cooked for, right?’
‘My ex didn’t cook,’ she said. ‘And yes, I prefer being taken out, as you can probably tell by my kitchen skills.’
‘Serious, this ex?’ George’s tone was light, but Rachel knew they were dancing around important details they were both keen to know, but without wanting to seem like they were too interested in finding out.
‘Quite serious,’ she said. ‘Work colleague. We split up a few weeks ago.’
‘Ah.’ He tried to look sympathetic, but his expression was more complicated. ‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘Don’t be,’ she replied quickly. ‘It wasn’t going anywhere. I should have called time on it, but . . .’
‘Men can be idiots,’ said George, and took a sip of wine before she could read his face.
Rachel was racking her brains for something witty yet flirtatious to retort with when the phone rang on the wall. ‘Sorry,’ she said, pushing her chair back. ‘Let me get that.’
When she picked up, she had to concentrate to hear over the background noise of a pub.
‘Hi, Rachel, it’s Megan. Is everything OK?’
‘Hello, Megan. Everything’s fine. Well, sort of. Chester’s eaten something he shouldn’t and put the fear of God into me, but I think we’re fine. George is here.’
‘Is he?’ Megan sounded a bit too surprised, Rachel thought. ‘Great! Well, listen, I’m not going to be able to get back tonight – my mate Jules has kind of overdone it on the happy hour and I’ve said I’ll stay with her tonight. Are you going to be all right there? I’ll try to get back for first thing, so you needn’t worry about—’
‘Are you suggesting that I can’t cope?’ said Rachel.
George got up from his seat and gestured at the phone. ‘Give me that. Hello, Megan? Megan, you’ll be pleased to hear that Rachel has mucked out the kennels as well as you could yourself. Yes, everywhere. Total pebbledash job.’ He glanced up at Rachel; the phone lead was short, so they were standing quite close together, and she felt conscious of the solid warmth of his chest through the shirt.
I wonder what it would feel like to be pressed against that, she thought, with a shiver. I wonder what George’s body looks like underneath his clothes. Muscular, definitely, from the heaving around of cows and horses, but hairy? Smooth? Golden?
She shook herself and George glanced at her quizzically.
‘She’s fine. So, if there’s anything else? No? Great. Goodnight, Megan.’ He hung up, but didn’t move away immediately, and she found herself unwilling to move either.
‘So,’ he said quietly, and Rachel braced herself for the next move. Oliver would have trotted out a seductive line about now. Or just gone straight in for a confident kiss.
Instead, George said, ‘I don’t supposed you’ve got any pudding, have you?’
Their eyes met, and the smile in his eyes changed to something more intense, and this time Rachel had to step away, as sparks tingled up and down her skin, in a way that made her feel about eighteen.
‘No,’ she said. Her voice didn’t sound like hers. ‘But I think Dot might have some whisky?’
George tipped his head to one side, as if he was considering. ‘Are you suggesting we make a night of it?’ Then his brain seemed to catch up with the meaning and he looked embarrassed. ‘I mean, in drinking terms, I wasn’t trying to—’
His confusion was endearing, but the suggestion that the other, dirtier thought was passing through his mind suddenly charged the atmosphere, and it hung between them like a question.
Rachel’s breath caught in her throat as she realised just how much she wanted to kiss him. He wasn’t going to make the first move, he was far too decent. But she’d had just enough wine to be reckless, if not properly drunk, and slowly she saw her own hand reach out and cradle the strong line of George’s jaw, her fingers long and delicate against his scratchy stubble, her navy nail varnish jarringly urban next to his old-fashioned face.
He kept his darkened eyes trained on hers, not resisting but not exactly helping either, until she pulled him gently towards her and brushed her lips against his, feeling the surprising softness of his warm mouth. The hesitation lasted for two, three seconds, in which Rachel felt she was suspended in mid-air, and then his strong arm went around her waist while his other hand slipped into her hair, cradling her head while their mouths parted, and she tasted the wine on his lips, and his own taste that was instantly, dizzyingly familiar.
Rachel’s head began to spin, not with the alcohol, but with longing, burning in the pit of her stomach. Without knowing exactly what she was doing, she wrapped her arms around George’s neck and let herself melt into his body, thrilling at the substantial feel of him, perfectly capable of supporting all five feet ten inches of her without complaint.
George broke off for a second, kissing her nose, around her eyelids. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Rachel,’ he murmured. Kisses fluttered along her cheekbone. ‘This is . . .’ The word was lost as he pressed his lips under her ear. ‘But are you sure . . .?’
Rachel grabbed his face again and kissed his mouth, leaving him in no doubt about what it was she wanted.
And then George did something that would have swung the balance anyway. In one easy move, he picked Rachel up and carried her through to the sitting room, and Dot’s enormous velvet sofa.
Down the hill, on the other side of Longhampton, Johnny was kissing Natalie’s neck and winding his arms around her, snaking inside the soft t-shirt she wore in bed. She’d had it since school and it was paper-thin, and sexy in an innocent way. He much preferred it to her new range of seduction nightwear, which made him feel as if he was making love in the window of Ann Summers.
Natalie stiffened under his touch, and he smiled, knowing he’d hit the magic spot on the back of her neck, the point that made her wriggle and sigh, the opening bars of something more passionate.
Encouraged by her reaction, he did it again, this time with more urgency, but she batted his hands away and lifted her head up off the pillow.
‘What?’ said Johnny, caught off stride.
‘Can you hear that?’ she hissed.
‘Hear what?’ He strained his ears and made out a now-familiar sound – a long, sorrowful groan, more like a dying man than a sulky dog. ‘Oh, that.’
‘Don’t sound so annoyed.’ She turned on her side so she was facing him, their bodies still tantalisingly close together under the warm duvet. ‘He’s crying.’
Johnny eyed the tempting swell of Natalie’s breasts under the t-shirt, and her nipples hardening against the thin cotton, and moved his hand to her hip, unwilling to give up s
o quickly. Untimetabled sex was something of a rarity.
‘Nat, I know he’s crying.’ He smoothed his hand over the sweeping curve of her waist. ‘He knows exactly what he’s doing. You can’t keep going down to him. Didn’t Megan tell you – he’s going to do this. He’s testing us.’
She turned back and they lay nose-to-nose in the dark, listening to the horrible groaning noise echoing through the house. It sounded like someone playing a double bass in boxing gloves.
‘That’s not crying,’ whispered Natalie. ‘He sounds like he’s in some kind of pain. Do you think he’s hurt himself on something in the kitchen?’
‘It’s the same noise as he was making last night. And the night before that.’
‘Is it? Oh! Did you let him out before you came up? Maybe he needs the loo.’
Johnny groaned and rolled onto his back. ‘What about me?’
‘What about you what? You don’t need to ask to use the loo, Johnny. Feel free.’
‘Nat.’ He pulled her hand so she rolled on top of him, and then gripped her round the buttocks, squeezing her to him in a way she normally found irresistible. She could feel how aroused he was, surely. ‘Let me take your mind off the dog. What was it you read on the internet? The more sex you have, the better your chances are of—’
‘I ovulated days ago,’ said Natalie, a wry smile twisting up the corner of her mouth. ‘Your sperm would have to have a Tardis to make a baby this month.’
Johnny flinched. ‘Maybe I didn’t want to make a baby. Maybe I just wanted to make love to you.’
Downstairs Bertie added an extra quaver to his plaintive howl. It sounded almost supernaturally awful.
‘I can’t stand it, I’m sorry.’ Natalie squirmed free, threw back the covers and leaped out of bed. ‘I’m going to go down there before the neighbours call the RSPCA.’
Johnny watched in acute frustration as she hunted around for her dressing gown, her long slim legs gleaming in the pale light from the clock radio.