‘No? Shame. Honestly, you’re OK.’ Juliet squashed her tile into the adhesive. Lorcan was making an effort to be friendly, she knew. She just hoped he didn’t think there was anything else in it. ‘I’d rather be here, stripping wallpaper. Didn’t you say the walls needed preparing for painting?’
‘Fair enough.’
There was another pause, filled by De Dannan. In a concession to the relatively early hour, Lorcan had brought a selection of folkier rock music to play while they tiled, instead of his usual lairy rock. It wasn’t anything Juliet had heard before, and she wasn’t even sure if they were singing in English, but she rather liked it.
‘Did you go out much at weekends when Ben was around?’ Lorcan asked. ‘Were you music fans? Foodies? Theatre-goers? Actually, scratch that.’
He didn’t use the hushed tone most people did when they asked about Ben, if indeed they ever did.
‘It depended,’ said Juliet, pleased to talk about him. ‘Saturdays were sometimes a bit tricky, if Kim and I had a wedding to cater in the evening, but we always went out on Sunday. Long walk with Minton, pub lunch in the countryside, or brunch in town, snooze. We were writing our own guide to local places you could take your dog to.’
‘Cool. You should get it published.’ Lorcan slid a couple of spacers in next to his tile with a practised hand.
Juliet smiled and reached for another tile. ‘Maybe I should,’ she said, but inside she didn’t even want to open the notebook and see Ben’s haphazard writing, his firm-but-fair marks out of ten, and her own appalled corrections.
‘Sounds like you both worked pretty hard,’ Lorcan went on. ‘Did you do much travelling in your time off?’
Juliet wanted to say yes, so they didn’t sound boring, but again she couldn’t. ‘It’s hard when you’re self-employed. We were supposed to be going on a long trip to Australia this year, to stay with my brother, Ian, and his wife.’ She paused, feeling the sharp edges of the glass along the tile. It felt strange, telling Lorcan about something that was meant to happen but now couldn’t. It was in the future and in the past at the same time, like so much of her life.
Juliet ploughed on. ‘We’d started saving up for the tickets. Ben wanted us to go club class, so he was doing extra gardening to pay for it. It was going to be a second-honeymoon kind of holiday. Our actual honeymoon was in New York,’ she added.
‘Cool place. But that’s sad about Australia. Did you get the tickets booked?’
‘No. We’d only just started saving up. And to be honest, we made the plans to go while Ian was over on a holiday here with his kids, and we were all feeling the family love. He offered to have us to stay with them to save money, because we only really had enough for flights, so we’d have been kipping on his floor.’ She paused, remembering the dinner. And the wine. And the slightly drunken offer of Ian’s summer house. ‘I mean, Ian’s great in small doses, but he’s a bit of a fitness freak these days. And Ben was never very tidy. It might have been awful.’
‘You’re right,’ said Lorcan, . ‘It might. And the plane might have crashed, and you might all have got food poisoning on the way over and then been eaten by koalas.’
‘What?’
‘You’re funny, Juliet. It’s like you’d rather it’d been crap. Why don’t you just go now?’
‘On my own?’ she replied.
‘Duh. Why not? You’re a big girl. Go. You’ll never get this time off again. It’d do you good. Fresh start. New experiences.’
Juliet stared at Lorcan, standing there with a green tile balanced in one long hand, the extra-strong adhesive dangling from his other as if it wasn’t about to glue his finger permanently to his leg. It was easy for him to say. He’d travelled all over the place. He’d been with rock bands. He didn’t feel like he’d suddenly been reborn, a nervous teenager in a thirty-year-old body, not like she did.
‘I need the money for my house,’ she said instead. ‘These tiles aren’t going to pay for themselves. Even if they are a bargain.’
‘That depends on how you look at it,’ said Lorcan, and turned back to his adhesive.
At half past twelve, Juliet stood up and stepped back from the bath to admire her handiwork. The pattern was emerging now they’d done four rows, and the sunlight flooding in from the open window made the glass tiles ripple like a swimming pool. It looked beautiful, and worked with the brass shower’s stately curve above it. The bathroom was coming back to life.
‘That looks really great, doesn’t it?’ she said, pleased. ‘Not like a complete beginner slapped it up.’
‘It looks grand,’ said Lorcan. ‘I’ll give you ten out of ten. ’Course, you need your grouting, but that’s another day.’ He sat back on his long skinny legs and let out a parched sigh. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea, now you’re on your feet?’
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said. ‘But I’ve got to get down to town for one, so you might have to make it yourself. I’m walking a new spaniel. Don’t want to be late for my new client.’
‘One?’ Lorcan checked his watch. ‘You’ve loads of time!’
‘I’m going to walk. I was looking on the map for new places to take the dogs and I’ve found this old footpath that goes all the way from behind the church right down into town. It should take me about half an hour, and saves on parking.’
It had surprised her, seeing the red line pop out of the map like that – the perfect link between her house and the park, via some fields and a small wood. How come I’ve never seen that before? she’d wondered.
Well, probably for the same reason she didn’t know where the fuse box was, or how to clip Minton’s claws. Because she never had to know, until now.
‘No tea?’ whined Lorcan. ‘Don’t make me go next door for my tea. Emer’s having one of her cleaning fits because there’s nits at the school and everything’s got bleach in it. It’s Russian coffee-mug roulette. It’s like being back on the road with The Bends. Don’t worry,’ he added, ‘you’re not meant to have heard of them. Even their mothers can’t pick out the bass player. Tea? Please?’
Juliet softened. It wasn’t like Damson would be there with a stopwatch, checking up on her. And Lorcan had worked pretty hard this morning.
‘Well, OK, quickly,’ she said and his broad smile lit up the bathroom.
Outside in the fields behind her house, Juliet stopped by a stile, lifted her face up and took a deep breath that ended in an unexpected gulp of regret. June had slipped into July and it was exactly the kind of summer day she and Ben had loved. Warm, but not dry-hot, with a china-blue sky and drifting white clouds, and the smell of cut grass and greenness in the air. A perfect day. She wanted to stop for a second and share it with him in her head.
Ben and Juliet weren’t a hot-weather couple, though everyone always assumed they were, from their jobs. Juliet had delicate skin that burned red and she hated cooking in heatwaves. Ben dreaded hosepipe bans and scorched lawns if it got above 28 degrees. Even Minton preferred it cooler – the previous summer had been so blistering he’d had to lie panting in the shade until late afternoon.
Today, the air was soft and buzzing with bumblebees hunting along the hedgerow that marked the old footpath’s winding progress down to town. Somewhere in the distance, a tractor was chugging along a cornfield, and red admirals fluttered in and out of her way. Today was the day that, if Ben were here with her, he’d have rung to say, ‘This is the highpoint of summer, Jools. Stick the cider in the fridge.’ And they’d have lain in the garden drinking it and looking up at the stars in the clear navy sky.
‘Do you fancy a cider in the garden later, Minton?’ she said aloud.
His tongue was dangling from one side of his mouth, and there were twigs in his harness from where he’d dived into the hedge in search of rabbits. He looked as if he was laughing.
‘Yes,’ Juliet replied to herself. ‘I’ll put it in the fridge.’
Melancholy swept her as she set off again, knowing there would never be another cider with Ben by her side, tickling her
feet with the crinkled bottle-top, but she forced herself to watch the red-and-black butterflies and feel the sun warming her hair and enjoy it for both of them.
It didn’t balance things out, but at least she could hear his voice, noting the blackberry blossom in the hedgerow, and reminding her to go back with a plastic bag for berries in a few weeks’ time, without wanting to cry. It just made her sad.
Ben was bossy about free hedgerow fruits, she thought, even from the other side.
Mark’s house was at the end of the loop of new townhouses built down by the canal. The estate agent who’d sold Juliet and Ben their renovation project had first tried to show them round a ‘prime location’ in Riverside Walk – until they’d admitted their budget and he’d whipped the details back across the desk as if they were state secrets.
Juliet could hear Damson barking as soon as she turned the corner. Her anxious yapping was setting off other dogs in the neighbourhood, like a car alarm echoing round the estate. A woman came out of a house opposite with a bag of recycling, glared in the direction of Mark’s house, glared at Juliet, then dumped the bottles in the wheelie bin and slammed back inside.
Juliet picked up her pace, in case Environmental Health were now being summoned. From the look on the neighbour’s face, the barking wasn’t a new development.
As she got nearer, the barking fluctuated like an old police siren, as if Damson was running up and down the hallway towards the door. Then she saw Damson’s black-and-white head bounce up by the window, her fluffy paws on the back of the sofa. Her ears were all over the place, and her frantic eyes were white-rimmed as she yapped through the glass at the intruder.
God, thought Juliet, panicking. Is she sick? Has something happened? Is there a gas leak?
‘Calm down,’ she said, putting her hands on the glass. ‘Calm down. It’s just me.’
Damson’s tail started wagging, but she didn’t stop barking.
‘Hang on, I need to find the key round the back.’ Juliet made a round-the-back gesture to Damson, who promptly vanished off the sofa, as if she’d understood.
Feeling a bit self-conscious, she walked round the side of the beautifully kept lawn and hunted around in the dead hanging basket (very original hiding place) for the spare key.
She opened the door into Mark’s utility room and Damson flung herself at Juliet’s knees like a furry cannonball, nearly knocking her over with licks and yaps. Juliet managed to shut the door behind her and leaned against it, trying to ignore Damson until she was calmer like the training books said, but it was easier said than done. The spaniel was so thrilled that her abandonment was over she was practically climbing into Juliet’s arms.
Minton hung back. Damson was bigger than him.
‘Shh, shh,’ soothed Juliet, checking her over to see if she’d hurt herself. Damson seemed fine, but her heart was racing and she was licking Juliet’s hands, in pathetic thanks.
Juliet could guess what the problem was, because she’d seen it before herself. Minton had had separation anxiety when they’d first rehomed him, and Rachel at the shelter had told her not to make a fuss when she came in. ‘Act normal, ignore him till you’ve got the kettle on, and he’ll get the message that going out and coming back isn’t such a big deal.’
It was so hard, though. Minton had been abandoned once already; Juliet had hated ignoring him. Damson was beside herself with relief to see a human face.
She forced herself to stand up, and moved away from the door. She’d made eighty-three cups of coffee (and cried into twenty of them) until Minton had got the message.
‘Come on in, Minton,’ she said, ignoring Damson completely. ‘How about a drink of water? Splash of ice and lemon, or straight? Straight, no problem. Now, where’s the water bowl?’
She looked around Mark’s whitewashed utility room. Washing machine, tumble-dryer, overflowing basket of ironing, wine rack . . . Damson’s plastic feeding area.
Damson had a plastic dog mat with two metal bowls on it. One, her food bowl, was untouched; the other, a water bowl, had barely a millimetre of water left in it.
‘No water?’ Juliet exclaimed. ‘On a summer day? That’s not great, now, is it?’
Damson had quietened and was sniffing around Minton in a sociable manner. Minton was letting her, but keeping a wary eye on Juliet all the same.
‘Where’s the sink?’ The door to the rest of the house was ajar, from Damson’s frantic dashing about, so she didn’t think Mark would mind her going in to fill it up.
She pushed open the door and the dogs skittered in after her as she swept it with a professional gaze. Like all the houses she’d been in lately, it smelled of someone else, and that seemed to sharpen her eyes for telling details.
Her first impression was that the kitchen definitely matched the owner. It was stylish and new, with the full complement of foodie implements (espresso machine, Magimix, et cetera), although whether Mark used them or not, she couldn’t tell. All the surfaces were clean, though not quite up to Louise’s laboratory standards; she guessed he had a cleaner. There was a large screen print of Paris on one wall, and proper wine glasses in the cabinet. A grown-up kitchen. Very different from the travel kettle and bare walls of her own ramshackle home.
But what about Mark? What clues were there about him? Juliet felt curiosity overtake her as she scanned the room.
Apart from a copy of the Longhampton local paper and a car magazine on the table, there wasn’t much to go on. No Moorcroft pottery to price up for auction, no shopping lists on chalkboards to psychoanalyse and no photos to peer at, except one of him crouching next to Damson on a mountain, stuck to the fridge with a single round magnet.
Mark seemed to be battling to stay upright, his hair blowing into his face, in a polar fleece hat and thick jumper. Damson looked deliriously happy, her ears at a 45-degree angle to her downy head.
Maybe the ex had taken the other photos. Or maybe he couldn’t bear to see them. Ooh, I’m getting good, thought Juliet; I can interpret absences now.
She realised Damson was waiting for her water, and hurriedly filled up the bowl at the big stainless-steel sink. (L’Occitane handwash and lotion set; probably a Christmas gift.) ‘There now. Don’t make a mess, please.’
Damson plunged her nose into the water and drank greedily, her long ears trailing in the bowl. Minton waited politely behind her.
Juliet felt a bit strange being alone in Mark’s kitchen, on this half-friendly, half-formal basis. It was one thing grouping Mrs Cox’s many grandchildren into family units, and calculating how old Barbara Taylor’s tea towels were, but this was different. Mark was a single man who’d asked her to pet-sit, but only after they’d chatted in the park, in a kind of flirty way.
She grimaced. Had he flirted? She knew she’d over-reacted with Lorcan, but her flirt antennae were rubbish – Ben had been at her side all her life, and she’d never fancied anyone else. Chatting to new people was bad enough at the best of times, but men, possible date men . . . she blushed, thinking of Mark in that way.
Juliet knew she’d have to learn to chat to strangers before they could become anything more than just passing faces in the park. At the very least, she needed some new friends, and Mark seemed like a nice guy. If he had any serial killer tendencies, surely now was the time to snoop around and find them?
Juliet felt an unsettling turn in her stomach that might have been excitement, might have been fear, and she turned her attention back to Damson, who was still lapping messily away.
Poor Damson. That wasn’t so nice of Mark. Had he forgotten to top up the water before he went to work, or had she drunk it all because she’d been barking all morning? And if she’d been too upset to finish her breakfast, how long had she been going mad in the house?
Juliet bit her lip, trying to give Mark the benefit of the doubt. He didn’t seem like the neglectful sort – he was, after all, paying her to come in and fuss his dog because he couldn’t. But he did seem busy, and preoccupied. Maybe he didn’t e
ven know how bad Damson’s separation anxiety was. Maybe he didn’t want to know, what with all the other guilt going on around his own separation.
Rachel had said some of the most neurotic rescue dogs they had came from divorcing homes. First the rows, then one half of the human family vanishing, then perhaps the other, then the poor dog passing between the two owners, not knowing who to love more. No wonder Damson didn’t know where her next pat was coming from.
Damson finally stopped drinking and Juliet bent down and caressed her soggy ears.
‘Are you ready for a walk, then? Let’s have a nice long walk and you can sleep until Daddy gets home.’
The spaniel wagged her tail so hard Juliet’s heart broke a bit.
Juliet gave Damson and Minton a good long walk, all round the park gardens, up through the woods and into a field, where they raced madly after Minton’s ball until both their tongues were flopping happily.
Back home, Damson curled up in her basket under the kitchen table and allowed Minton to take up a corner. Juliet felt better about leaving her now she was thoroughly worn out, but even so, she knew she had to say something to Mark about the state she’d found her in.
But what? She wasn’t a vet, or the dog police. And this wasn’t just about the dog; it was about Mark’s home life, his relationship. Was it fair to make it sound like it was his fault? At least he was trying.
Juliet got her notebook out of her bag. She’d got into the habit of carrying one – not so much to leave bossy notes for owners, but to answer the worried queries they left her about poo consistency or amount of breakfast eaten.
She chewed her pen for a moment, then wrote:
Dear Daddy,
Can you leave the television on for me next time, please? It drowns out the sound of next door’s stupid dog and the woman over the road’s baby. It’d help me sleep better and means I don’t have to worry about them. QVC would be good, or BBC News 24, ta.
If you could stick a Kong in my basket, that’d be good too.