He’s a total rat, she reminded herself. He cheated on boring Kath, he cheated on you, he’s having a midlife crisis and he never really loved you.
‘What if I don’t need rescuing?’ she managed, forcing herself to stay cool.
Oliver dropped his hand. ‘Then maybe you can rescue me,’ he said smoothly. ‘I’ve come to apologise.’
‘Go on then.’
He looked slightly surprised by her attitude, but carried on, ‘I’ve been incredibly stupid. I can’t explain what happened to me these last few months, but I’m over it now. You brought me to my senses and I’m so sorry for everything.’
‘Is Tara aware of that?’
He raised an eyebrow, then realised she knew everything. ‘She’s . . . not in the picture any more.’
There was a short silence, but Oliver stepped in to fill it, like the skilful presenter he was. ‘I know I can’t ask you to forget what happened, but I hope one day you’ll be able to forgive me.’
‘And Kath?’
‘Kath’s not in it for forgiveness. She’s getting my house, my children and half my business, so if anything she ought to be sending you some flowers as a thank you.’
‘I can’t just pretend nothing happened, Oliver.’ Rachel leaned against the table. Her legs had gone weak. ‘I’ve been through the worst time of my life. I lost everything! My home, my job, the love of my life—’
Damn, she thought, as soon as she said it. He’ll love that. I shouldn’t have given him that.
‘I know,’ he said, ‘and that’s why I’ve come. I want to put things right again. I’ve had to sell the agency – solicitor’s advice, don’t ask – and I want to set up again, on my own. I only want the best team around me, and so I wondered – can I offer you a job?’
Rachel stared at him, astonished by his chutzpah. He was appealing to her professional pride. As if that mattered more to her than her broken heart.
‘You’re the best PR I know,’ he went on, ‘regardless of your other qualities. I can double your salary straight away, and make you a director.’ Oliver took a step closer and Rachel could smell his expensive cologne. Her head began to spin. ‘But what I really want, what I can’t even hope for, is that maybe you might consider coming back to me as well. Not as my office wife, but as . . . well, as my home wife too.’ He gazed into her eyes, and Rachel’s resistance slipped even further. ‘I know I’ve behaved appallingly, but it was the wake-up call I needed, Rachel. And now I’m free, Kath’s off my case – we can make a proper new start together.’
‘I . . .’ Rachel didn’t know what to say. Too many things were racing across her mind, not all of them as honest as she’d have liked.
Already the weight of responsibility was lifting off her weary shoulders as his familiar magic snaked around her, and into her resistance, like smoke. Oliver would look after her, he was old-fashioned like that. Kath had never worked in all the years they’d been married. And the baby . . . Maybe it was Oliver’s. She hadn’t had any tests done or anything – there was an outside chance his condom could have failed, not George’s.
George would probably be relieved, argued the sneaky voice. He didn’t want his bachelor life screwed up by an accidental baby and a woman he didn’t really know. It was kinder all round to leave now. Neater for everyone.
‘I want you to come back,’ said Oliver, as if he could hear the sneaky voice. He took a step closer and put his hands on her arms. It was a soft, romantic gesture, not a cheap grab; Rachel knew he knew her too well. And he played the trump card he’d held back for years, the one he only brought out at absolute catastrophe points. ‘I love you, Rachel.’
Rachel wanted to scream about how much he’d hurt her, but she was too spellbound to speak. Oliver always knew how to charm her, and now he was clearly pulling out all the stops. Because he wanted her. She couldn’t deny how flattering it was.
‘Do you have any idea what you did to me?’ she began, but from the look on Oliver’s face, she knew he saw it as a prelude to a ‘yes’.
The fire doors to the kennel office banged suddenly.
‘Rachel! I’m really sorry I’m late, I’ve been at a calving bloodbath up at . . . Oh.’
She stepped back from Oliver as if an electric shock had gone through her.
George was standing at the door with a dark expression creasing his honest face. He nearly filled it with his burly frame, especially with his working jacket on, still stained with mud and other noxious substances.
He’s so much taller than Oliver, thought Rachel, distractedly. Or rather, Oliver’s so much smaller than George.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he went on stiffly. ‘Megan wants you to come outside. She’s got something she needs you for.’
Rachel glanced at Oliver, who was managing to look as if he was the one at home in the office, not George.
‘Oliver, this is George Fenwick, our vet. George, this is Oliver Wrigley. My . . .’ The second the words left her lips, Rachel knew she’d made a horrible mistake and now George’s wounded eyes confirmed it.
‘Her old flame,’ added Oliver, with a confident smile. ‘Lovely to meet you.’
George didn’t bother to reply. ‘Our vet,’ he repeated. ‘Right. Well, your vet is happy to hear things are going so well here, so I’ll be off. I’ll leave that ear ointment with Darren.’
He nodded, and left, before Rachel could stop him.
‘Are all country men as terse as that?’ asked Oliver, amused. ‘No wonder you get so much done – no time wasted on idle chit-chat round here.’ He reached out for her again, this time bypassing her arms and going straight for her waist, pulling her close enough to kiss. As he touched her t-shirt, and felt the extra few inches underneath, his smile increased. ‘Now where were we? I see rural life agrees with you too . . .’
His hands squeezed her stomach and Rachel suddenly felt like she was betraying not only George but the baby as well. ‘There’s something else,’ she said, forcing out the words before she could think. ‘I’m pregnant.’
Oliver took it in his stride. ‘OK. That’s unexpected. When were you planning on telling me that?’
‘I don’t know.’ Rachel knew she was wading into dangerous waters now. He knew far more about children than she did. Dates, times, development. He had three, after all. She pulled away. ‘Oliver, I can’t get my head around it all.’
‘I understand.’ His voice was soothing. ‘But you’re not on your own now. Say the word, and we can be out of here. I’ve got solicitors who can tidy up any deals in forty-eight hours. Leave everything to the dogs if you want.’
It was a smart touch. That would balance the emotional guilt scales, she thought.
‘I need to be outside. Megan’s got some display going on,’ she said, playing for time. ‘Come on and meet our rescue pups, they’re lovely.’
‘I didn’t think you were a dog person,’ he said, gingerly picking his way through the kennels to the orchard door. The remaining Jack Russells growled as he went past, and Rachel had to shush them.
‘No, I didn’t think I was either. But you change, don’t you?’ She blinked as they stepped into the bright May sunshine, and saw Megan at the far end of the orchard, with a huge crowd of dogs and owners behind her.
When she saw Rachel, she raised the megaphone to her lips and started talking. Her Aussie accent sounded even stronger, wobbled through the amplification.
‘Thank you all for coming this afternoon to support our rescue operation! This is the most important part of today’s events – the Grand Reunion! But first, I’d like to introduce you to our president, Rachel Fielding, who is the niece of our founder and an old friend of many of you, Dorothy Mossop. Rachel?’
She beckoned her over, and self-consciously Rachel walked across the space Megan had cleared.
‘What is this?’ she hissed.
Megan winked and raised the loud hailer. ‘These are just some of the friends who Dot put together over the years, and they wanted to come and say thanks
for their second chances. Without Dot’s love and commitment, most of these dogs would have been put to sleep at the pound, or left to starve on the streets. So please can I have a round of applause for Gerald Flint, with Spry and Molly . . .’
Oh, God, thought Rachel, shrieking inside. I don’t have time for this. I don’t have time to look at dogs when I should be in an office, with Oliver, working out what to do with the rest of my life! Her nails dug into her palms as she clenched her fists tight.
But Megan was looking at her expectantly, and she forced a smile onto her face, and watched as first Gerald walked past, looking weekend casual in beige slacks and a Cotton Traders polo shirt, proudly leading two beautiful blue-roan spaniels. He smiled as he passed her, and she could see how the dogs changed his whole manner.
‘Bridget Armstrong and Muffin! Jim and Lesley Horrocks, with Richard and Judy! Gavin and Kaden Laine, and Marley!’ A grey-haired lady and a tubby Labrador were followed by an old couple with two bouncy crossbreeds, and a young man with a small boy and a collie cross.
Rachel’s hands began to unclench as she took in the happy smiles directed at her. The people kept on coming, like a walk past of veterans. Old dogs, young dogs, three-legged dogs, each one led by an owner beaming with pride.
As she was watching, one old lady with a Maltese terrier dropped out of line and approached her.
‘Here you go,’ said the old lady. She pressed a twenty-pound note and a sponsorship form into Rachel’s hand.
‘What’s this for?’
‘I can’t give you a lot,’ she said, ‘but it’s to buy pig’s ears. I had my Kipper from Dot, and he was the best friend I ever had. Sweet as you like. Never a bark out of line, even when he was right at the end.’
‘Thank you,’ said Rachel, moved.
‘What Dot did . . .’ The old lady blinked behind her bifocals. ‘It’s marvellous. Not for the dogs, but for folk like me. We were the lucky ones. They got homes and a nice bed, but we got someone to listen and to keep us company. You can’t put a price on that. It’s like Dot knew just what we were missing.’ Then she clicked her tongue at the dog and moved off.
‘Lovely,’ said Oliver, in a deep, sincere tone straight off a coffee advert. ‘It’s really very touching the way people feel about their animals. You must let me make a donation.’
Rachel wasn’t listening. She was thinking about Dot, and Felix, and the strangers that would have lurked in the shadows of their marriage, just as she’d lurked between Oliver and Kath for so many years. Dot could have had everything she wanted, so long as she didn’t ask for all of Felix. Instead she’d gone for a companion she could trust, uncomplicated Gem, and the other cautious, broken animals who’d washed up here, hoping for a second chance to show their capacity for loyalty. And what was Oliver offering her now? All of himself? But for how long? At least Felix had been honest with Dot. She knew Oliver wouldn’t be.
And what was she offering – all of herself, apart from the secret growing inside her? And the other secret, that part of her that wished it had turned out differently with the big gruff vet.
‘No,’ said Rachel aloud.
There couldn’t be any secrets anymore.
‘Oh, you must,’ said Oliver, slipping his arm round her with the old, easy confidence. ‘I can write it off as a charity donation. I’m all for rescuing waifs and strays.’
She turned to him, shrugging off the arm, and looked him in the eye. In her new boots she was slightly taller than he was, but she felt like a bigger person altogether. Taller, stronger, confident. Finally.
‘No,’ said Rachel. ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t talking about the dogs. I was meaning me. I won’t come back. I don’t need rescuing by anyone, thanks.’
28
It was nearly six before the final visitors left, and nearly eleven at night before Rachel had another moment to herself.
Oliver left almost at once, after sheepishly asking her for the flat keys. Now he was selling the business, he needed them. Rachel could tell when she flung them into his hand that he was relieved. Maybe he’d anticipated some unseemly West London squatting. Maybe Kath had goaded him into action. Maybe he just wanted his horrible jeans back. She didn’t want to think how big a part the keys had played in his return, or how she might have played the cards better, to help with the looming tax bill; she just wanted him to leave her new life.
The atmosphere in Four Oaks was like the last stages of a feel-good musical, with much bonhomie and loud music. Megan, Johnny and Natalie had done the evening feed-and-clean routine accompanied by Radio One, instead of the usual soothing tones of Radio Four, and Freda had made everyone sit down while she and Ted cooked them a full English breakfast for tea.
Rachel was so shattered she’d nearly fallen asleep in her fried egg, and Freda had sent her to lie down for a couple of hours. Despite the constant churning going on in her head, she fell sound asleep until eight and when she came downstairs again, they were all still in the kitchen. Johnny had counted up the takings from the various stalls, and Natalie had presented her with a neat pile of sponsorship forms.
‘It’s all going to work out,’ said Natalie. She seemed intoxicated with cheerfulness. ‘I’ve been on the internet, and downloaded all the forms you need to register the rescue as a proper charity, so you can claim tax relief and stuff. We’ve talked about it,’ she glanced around the table, ‘and I’m happy to act as a trustee, and so’s Johnny.’
‘That’s a great idea,’ said Rachel. ‘Um, thanks.’
The scales tipped further in favour of staying. If Natalie was happy to help with the paperwork . . .
‘You know we’re keeping Bertie?’ Natalie went on, nodding towards the dozing Basset curled around Gem in the improbably small basket.
‘You are?’
‘We are. We had to persuade those nice people who’d come all the way to see him to take one of the Jack Russells instead,’ said Johnny. ‘I fear for them, I really do, but Megan said it would be OK.’
‘But what about your job?’
Natalie grinned, and Rachel realised she and Johnny were holding hands under the table. ‘I’m having a life-laundry moment. So you can count on me for extra volunteer work up here.’
‘We should make a move,’ said Johnny, pushing his chair back. ‘Ted, Freda? Can we give you a lift?’
‘Much obliged,’ said Ted, and Rachel noticed that Natalie and Freda had their heads together as they left the kitchen.
She was too tired even to be curious. I’ll find out soon enough, she thought, stacking up the plates to go in the dishwasher.
‘Go back to bed,’ said Megan. ‘I’ll finish up here. You looked bushed. No offence.’
‘None taken. I know I look like the living dead.’ Rachel put her hands on her aching back. It had been a long, long day, and she hadn’t done half of what Megan had. ‘I haven’t said thanks,’ she added.
‘What for?’
‘For all you did today. That little walk past – it made me cry.’
‘I think it made everyone cry,’ said Megan. ‘That was kind of the point. You should have seen the change buckets by the gate.’ Her expression changed. ‘But seriously, you did the work. If you hadn’t decided to kickstart the rehoming and do all this . . .’ She smiled, and her whole face lit up with genuine friendship. ‘For a non-dog person, you’ve done all right, eh?’
Rachel blinked, because she suddenly felt quite emotional. ‘I’ll just go and check on the mutts,’ she said. ‘Then I’ll turn in.’
She let herself into the kennel office, trying not to disturb the snoozing dogs, and sat in Dot’s battered leather library chair. It was peaceful, apart from the muffled radio and the occasional doggie grumble, but Rachel sat with her head in her hands, nearly deafened by the voices in her head.
What to do? Stay? Go? Sell?
Today had shown her just how much her world had shifted – she didn’t want to go back to London, to Oliver, to her old life. Dot hadn’t left her the kennels to bai
l out on her dream. She’d left it to Rachel so she could feel she was making a real difference, somewhere.
But it was still a commitment, just when she didn’t need extra pressure. She hadn’t even worked out where to find the money to pay off the rest of the inheritance tax, or the money to pay to fix the various problems with the house itself. The boarding kennels might make a decent turnover, but she still had to get them up and running.
Maybe I should sell up, lock, stock, and barrel to that client who wanted the country retreat, she thought. It’d be cleaner. I could give some money to a different dog charity, help find Megan a new job . . .
There was a knock on the door. George put his head round. ‘Sorry it’s late. Can I have a word?’ He sounded stiff but determined, as if he’d been sent to the headteacher’s office to apologise.
‘’Course.’ Rachel sat up and pulled her hair about. She wished she didn’t always look so shattered when she saw him. Their relationship was so back to front that he might never get to see her looking fabulous. She caught herself. What relationship was that?
‘I came to say sorry about before,’ he said, without preamble. ‘That was the serious long-term ex, I take it?’
‘Yes,’ said Rachel. ‘Oliver. And I want to say sorry too. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to call you my boyfriend,’ she went on, feeling she had most to apologise about. ‘I just didn’t know whether . . .’ It was so stupid. ‘I didn’t know whether you’d be happy about being my . . . whether you think of yourself as my boyfriend or not. We’re both a bit too old to be at this stage, don’t you think?’
George squeezed his chin, though his eyes were still flinty. ‘Yeah. When you put it like that, I’d rather be introduced as your vet than your baby daddy, or whatever they call it now.’
‘I’ve heard worse.’
She waited for him to say he was happy to be introduced as her boyfriend, but he didn’t. Instead he pulled at the sleeve of his good jumper and blew his cheeks out thoughtfully.
‘Do you want to sit down?’ suggested Rachel. ‘You’re making me feel like I’m interviewing you for a job.’