It had been a night ‘away from the boys’, just the two of them round at hers with a bottle of wine not long after Ben’s birthday. But after just one glass, Juliet had let slip something about her and Ben that had stunned Louise into temporary silence, and, because she wasn’t sure what advice to offer, that had led her to confess something equally awful to Juliet. But the expression on her sister’s face had stopped her, just before the biggest confession could burst out.
Even here, outside Boots on the High Street, she could still see Juliet’s eyes, usually so forgiving, hardening like coal. And then she’d grabbed her coat and left, without waiting for the explanation, and Louise had been left to polish off the rest of the wine, plus half another bottle, and then it had been too late to phone her up and say the words that would have fixed things between friends. Juliet wasn’t a friend though, she was her sister.
It would have been bad enough facing Juliet the next morning, once the hangover had worn off, but just twenty-four hours later, Ben was lying dead in Longhampton Hospital, and grief and confusion had flooded the whole family. Not washing the bad feelings away like sand, but somehow solidifying them, like the bodies at Pompeii. It was all still there – the secrets, the unasked questions – but hidden.
Louise rested her head against the marble of the shopfront and wondered how much, if any, of this her mother needed to know. Maybe a better question was, how much did she already know?
‘Why do you say that?’ she hedged.
Diane didn’t have Louise’s court skills. She might be a schemer, but under questioning, she was open like Juliet, confessing everything.
‘Because there’s an atmosphere when you two are together. I noticed it the other day, when I picked up Toby. She was behaving very oddly . Be honest – is it that she’s jealous of you having him? I didn’t think she and Ben were trying for children. But then would she tell me? Did she say anything to you?’
Louise felt bad, grabbing the nearest excuse, but she did. ‘I think they were thinking about it. That’s why I don’t want to force babysitting on her. Don’t want to rub it in.’
‘Oh, but she loves Toby,’ said Diane immediately. ‘Juliet’s young, plenty of time for her to have her own family yet. I mean, I know it wouldn’t be Ben’s, and I know he was the love of her life, but . . . Oh dear. It’s so hard knowing what to do for the best. I think it would help, though, being part of your family. She needs her big sister.’
Louise saw Juliet’s angry face in her mind’s eye. If she thought of that conversation every time she thought of Juliet, she assumed Juliet felt the same. It made her shrink inside, out of cowardice. Presumably Juliet felt the same.
‘And she needs Toby,’ Diane went on. ‘She needs someone to love right now. Someone other than Minton. Bless him, but he won’t ever be able to tell her he loves her back, will he? Be the bigger girl, Louise. Build the bridges.’
‘Fine, I’ll ask her,’ she said. It always came down to her.
‘Oh, that makes me feel better,’ said Diane, and Louise couldn’t help wondering if her mother would be quite so bothered if she knew what she did about poor, tragic Juliet, and why her two girls – so similar in some ways, so different in others – weren’t really talking.
Coincidentally, Juliet was only a few hundred metres from Louise when she rang, doing her round of the park with Coco, Minton and Hector.
It was amazing, the difference in Hector’s manners, now he had a harness and a walker who gave him instructions, instead of letting him haul her around. He also seemed to have resolved his issues with Minton, and the two of them barrelled along matily ahead of Juliet and Coco, sometimes giving each other a shoulder barge like a couple of lads out on the town.
Juliet was pleased Minton had a friend. Even if he was a friend who might lead her innocent boy into terrible ways, it took some of the pressure off her when it came to amusing him. She didn’t think his current life was anywhere near as entertaining and varied as the one he’d lived at Ben’s side.
Coco plodded away, and Juliet, with Diane’s pedometer, plodded next to her in her lovely protective bubble of Chapter Seventeen of Emma. The polite nods of recognition she received from other walkers weren’t unlike the formal relationships going on in her ears. Blonde Wild Dog Café Owner with Red-and-White Basset Hound Called Bertie now beamed in a familiar manner, even if she didn’t know her name, as did retired Man in Flat Cap with Surprisingly Butch Scottie Called Churchill, who actually touched the brim of his cap as he passed.
Life was much more civilised when people had to leave calling cards, thought Juliet, heading out of the park and up the hill towards Coneygreen Woods. It was much easier to be a widow then, too. Widows had a timetable, right down to what clothes they wore to let people know which stage they’d reached in their grieving. And people knew what to say and didn’t come out with stupid, upsetting things like ‘Time is a great healer’ or ‘He had a good innings.’
She stopped as the narrator was suspended, mid-witticism, and the sound of a ringtone cut in. When she wrestled the phone out of her bag and saw it was Louise, not her mother, Juliet’s heart sank a bit, but she answered it anyway.
‘Jools, it’s me.’ Louise sounded bright – and a bit fake. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘What are you up to? Everything OK?’
Juliet rolled her eyes at Hector. She could do without this quiz every time her mother and sister rang. If she was contemplating a razor blade and a bottle of gin, she’d hardly tell them. ‘I’m walking the dogs.’
‘Oh, you’re out! Wonderful! Listen, are you around on Friday night?’
‘No, I’m going to Paris for the night,’ said Juliet. ‘Of course I’m in.’
Already, she could guess where this was headed. Was this another of Louise’s invitations to dinner . . . ‘to meet some new faces’? How many unattached computer nerds could there be in one small town?
‘Would you like to come and spend some time with Toby?’ asked Louise. ‘Peter’s taking me out for dinner.’
The no-date-thanks objections scrolling through Juliet’s mind like screen credits – I’m not ready; I have nothing to talk about; I’d be betraying Ben – froze.
Toby? Louise had never asked her to look after Toby before.
And more to the point, Peter was taking Lou out for dinner?
‘Do you mean, would I like to babysit Toby?’ She tugged Minton back from his eager inspection of a crumpled KFC bag.
There was a pause, and Juliet knew Louise was kicking herself for revealing her hand. Obviously not back on full court form yet, she thought, triumphantly.
‘Well, yes. But he’d love to have his auntie look after him. You can come over earlier and help me bath him and put him down, if you want. I mean,’ Louise added, backtracking over the usual eggshells, but too late, ‘that’d be nice, but you don’t have to.’
Juliet didn’t answer immediately, and not just because she wanted to make her sister uncomfortable. She liked Toby, and he was hardly on the Kelly scale of feral, but she wasn’t totally confident about her toddler-minding capabilities. How much damage could he do to himself?
You could always take him round to Emer’s, pointed out a voice in her head.
Emer and Juliet were on tentative ‘dropping in’ terms, after Emer had invited herself in for coffee a few days ago with a box of biscuits ‘she wasn’t meant to be eating’. She had ended up staying three hours, telling her about washing blouses for various Britpop legends until Roisin came round to get her. Minton had curled up by her bare, green-polished toes; always a good sign.
Maybe it was the date part. The last time she and Louise had talked, before Ben died, Peter’s lack of dating behaviour had been, well . . . a real problem. Had something changed?
Well, yes, she reminded herself. Ben’s death had probably revitalised their marriage at the same time as it had destroyed hers. Just one of the many outrageous side effects of the unfairness she had to live wi
th and everyone else seemed to use as a helpful carpe diem lesson.
‘I’m supposed to be going round to feed Mrs Cox’s cats at six,’ she began.
‘Come after that,’ said Louise. ‘How will the cats know if it’s six? Do they have watches?’
‘They have a routine,’ said Juliet. She squinted at a tree that had burst into flower since the last time she’d passed; amazing how impatient nature could be. I must ask Ben what kind of—
‘Can’t you ask Peter’s mum?’ she blurted out, to fill the space in her head where that thought was going.
‘I could, but I’d like you to do it,’ said Louise, unexpectedly, and the weariness in her voice cut through Juliet’s barriers.
‘Fine, OK. How long for?’
‘It won’t be late. We’re both shattered – I bet we leave before pudding. If we don’t fall asleep in it! To be honest, I’d rather someone took Toby out for dinner and we got to go to bed at seven!’
Juliet noted that Louise was doing her condescending voice – the over-cheerful one she put on while trying to pretend that the fantastic thing she had was actually a bit of a trial, so she wouldn’t feel jealous. Baby, job, car that needed expensive servicing. Boo hoo, not. It was actually more irritating than plain boasting.
Louise sounded more strained than normal. Maybe it wasn’t just put on, though. It almost sounded as if she was trying to convince herself.
‘It’s nice that you’re going on a date,’ said Juliet. ‘Romantic table for two, is it?’
‘Yes. We’re . . . Peter’s making a bit more effort.’
‘Isn’t it a bit late for that?’
As soon as she said it, Juliet knew it was a low blow, and she felt bad, but it was too late to take it back, and Louise wasn’t helping by being so dignified.
Awkward.
Someone was waving at her from the top of the hill, where the paths forked off on the different nature trails.
Juliet squinted. The sun had finally come out from behind the grey clouds and was streaming through the lacy treetops. It was a man, a man with a spaniel.
She recognised the spaniel immediately – it was Damson. Her owner had obviously identified her by the dogs dragging her along.
Juliet swapped Coco’s lead into her other hand, tucked the phone under her ear and waved back. Louise had got herself back on track by wittering on about feeding times and other stuff, and the man was walking towards her, covering the ground quite fast.
This time, Juliet reckoned she’d have recognised him without the spaniel clue; his ruffled hair was familiar, as were his glasses and his Barbour jacket with the zip-lock bag of treats poking out. Tell-tale dog-owner sign. He was smiling too, in preparation for saying hi.
The thought of on-the-spot conversation gave her the usual frisson of panic. Juliet calculated she had about two minutes to get off the phone, put her headphones in and appear absorbed in her audiobook of Emma, if she didn’t want to look rude.
‘. . . about six?’ Louise finished up.
‘Yeah, fine,’ said Juliet, fingering her earphones. Should she? Shouldn’t she?
He was nearer now. The man pointed at Damson, then at the coffee stand, made a drinky-drinky gesture.
‘Great,’ said Louise. ‘Toby’s looking forward to it already! Is there anything you’d like me to leave in the fridge for your supper?’
‘Whatever. I don’t mind. I don’t eat much.’ Louise was ticking off precious seconds of thinking time with her stupid questions about whether Juliet was getting enough vitamins, and then, before she could gather her excuses, Louise had rung off and Damson and Mark (it was Mark, wasn’t it? thought Juliet, racking her brains. Or Luke? He looked like a Mark) were near enough for Hector to start barking whatever the dog equivalent of ‘Hello, darlin’, nice legs’ was at Damson.
‘Stop it,’ she hissed. ‘You are dragging me into—’
Too late. He was right there.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Sorry about him. I haven’t walked the attitude out of him yet today.’
‘Oh, he’s just being friendly,’ said Mark. ‘What a gorgeous day, eh? I shouldn’t have come out in this –’ he flicked at his jacket – ‘but it’s got all the bits and pieces in it, and I couldn’t be bothered unloading it all.’
‘You should do what I do and just have black plastic bags in every single coat,’ said Juliet. ‘I even found one in my pocket at . . .’
She was about to say, ‘at my husband’s funeral’. God, that had nearly finished her off. She’d held it together quite well up till then, but when she’d pulled the stray poo bag out along with the gloves she needed for the freezing churchyard, all Juliet had been able to think of was Minton’s paws clicking away on the floorboards at night, searching the house for his master when he thought she was asleep.
‘. . . at my nephew’s christening,’ she finished. Because that was true too. ‘Came in handy for getting rid of some pukey baby wipes.’
‘A hundred and one uses! Do you fancy a coffee?’ he asked. ‘I was hoping to see you, actually – there’s something I wanted to ask.’
He smiled hopefully as he spoke, and Juliet let herself be steered towards the stand.
Just do it, she told herself. Just have the coffee and talk for five minutes and it’s another five minutes over, and another conversation done, and another step nearer to normality.
After some lead-juggling, they were soon holding too-hot cappuccinos and waiting a little awkwardly for change. Mark grinned nervously at her while the coffee girl counted his change from a twenty-pound note.
‘Am I right in thinking you’re a dog-walker?’ he asked, as they set off slowly around the flowerbed paths.
‘Well, not professionally,’ Juliet began, then heard Louise’s voice in the back of her mind. Don’t be so negative. How else was she going to afford to eat, if she was still avoiding Kim’s calls and pleading unreliability? And she had to take Coco and Hector out anyway.
‘I’m just starting up,’ she said, in a different, more Louise tone. ‘I’ve just got two dogs at the moment, and some cats.’
‘So you might have time to walk Damson?’
‘Don’t you walk her enough yourself?’ She didn’t add, ‘I see you most days,’ in case that made her look a bit . . . stalkery.
‘I do. I mean, I did.’ Mark sipped his coffee and made a face. ‘My job’s changed and I’m in the office three days a week now. My ex has decided she doesn’t want custody of Damson any more – never really wanted a dog, apparently – so we’re in a bit of a fix, aren’t we, Dam?’
He glanced down at Damson, walking close to Coco’s substantial side for sisterly support. ‘My next-door neighbour’s been popping in to let her out at lunchtime, but she doesn’t want to make it a regular thing. I can’t blame her. I don’t want to put Damson in kennels for the day when she just needs a run at lunchtime. She’ll happily sleep the rest of the day if she’s tired, and she gets on with your lot, so . . .’
He raised his blond eyebrows, just like the antiques man on telly did when he was trying to persuade a couple to take a risk on a vase. ‘I’m happy to pay the going rate. Whatever that is.’
‘Of course,’ said Juliet, as if she already knew what that was. ‘Which days?’
‘Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday?’
‘That might work,’ said Juliet. ‘I’d have to check the diary.’
Mark seemed relieved. ‘Great! What’s the routine? Do I drop her off?’
‘Well,’ said Juliet, feeling she ought to sound semi-organised, ‘Hector’s owner gives me a set of keys and I pick him up, walk him, then take him back, check he’s got some water and leave him to nap. But she’s not far from me. Don’t worry,’ she added, ‘I’ve got one of those secure key cupboards, with proper locks.’ Ben had had one, for his clients’ house keys. ‘Where do you live?’
‘Down by the canal. Riverside Walk.’
Ooh, thought Juliet. The nice new-build houses. Executive.
‘O
K,’ she said, thinking on her feet. ‘Give me your number and I’ll give you a call.’
It occurred to Juliet, as he was writing down his details, that it’d be a good time to clear up the name thing.
But as usual, like all owners, he’d written, Damson, his number and his address.
And as usual, she just smiled, embarrassed, and said, ‘Great!’
Chapter 12
It was amazing, thought Juliet, the things you could find out about a person just from feeding their pets.
For a start, Mrs Cox was a widow, with a near-biblical horde of grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and a massively sweet tooth if the catering-size boxes of Thorntons toffee in her pantry were anything to go by. She had three entire shelves of tinned sardines, one of pilchards and a separate washing machine for the cats. And she kept all the supermarkets’ special-offer vouchers clipped to clothes pegs along her kitchen window to remind her to use them.
It was almost like being on a daytime-television programme, Juliet thought, going round the geranium baskets in the sitting room with a watering can, as requested by Mrs Cox in her note. All the fun of looking at someone else’s house, but without the actual ‘having to talk to them’ bit, or paying £4.80 for an interiors magazine. Perfect.
Well, she had to talk to the cats. They seemed to expect a bit of conversation from the regal way they were staring at her.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked Bianca, through a mouthful of treacle toffee (‘Help yourself to tea, coffee, et cetera!’). ‘You seem a bit down. Are you missing your mum?’
Boris definitely seemed sadder than he had done the last time she’d seen him. There was a droop to his eyes that hadn’t been there before, and his tail looked . . . less powder-puffy. Juliet wasn’t an expert on cats, but he looked almost deflated.
‘What’s up, chaps?’ she asked, concerned. ‘You haven’t even touched your salmon.’