Chastened, Juliet pulled her hand away and left him alone.
Juliet had nodded off in a gin-soaked stupor, when she heard a noise. What was that?
She sat up slowly, her head feeling like it was wrapped in cotton wool.
A scary retching, hacking sound. Then Coco’s anxious bark.
Minton was on the kitchen floor, retching, his back arched in effort. There were four big pools of vomit on the rug, watery and full of partially digested shaving brush, dog food and, oh no, buttons. His lips were pulled back from his jaws in a horrible rictus, and Juliet saw to her horror that his gums were pale. Coco and Hector looked on anxiously.
‘Minton! Are you OK?’ She couldn’t stop herself. ‘Of course you’re not OK. Oh God. Oh God.’
She knelt down beside him and shoved her fingers into his mouth, trying to dislodge whatever was in there, but she couldn’t feel anything apart from his slippery tongue. Minton looked up at her, his eyes white and rolling. It looked as though he’d been trying for some time.
‘I’m sorry!’ she wailed. ‘I can’t get it!’
Juliet probed around some more, but all she succeeded in doing was temporarily cutting off Minton’s air.
She sat up. Her mind was thick and stupid with the sloe gin, and she struggled to clear it.
What were you meant to do with choking dogs? The book. Where was that book she’d got, the dog encyclopaedia that was meant to have first aid?
Juliet ran through to the sitting room, searching the boxes marked Books. Her hands were trembling as she yanked at the parcel tape, one eye still on Minton in the kitchen. He didn’t seem to be choking, just desperately trying to sick something up, but he looked weak and every effort seemed more feeble.
She opened box after box until she came to the right one. Her fingers wouldn’t flip through the pages properly, and she had to keep herself from dropping it.
’Hang on, Minton,’ she called out desperately, as she searched the index for ‘choking’. ‘Hang on. I’m going to sort it out.’
Finally, she found the page on retching. Her eyes scanned the possible causes – there were lots – but the advice was in bold. ‘Call the vet if your dog is vomiting repeatedly,’ it said in bold. ‘Internal blockages can be fatal, and dogs will quickly dehydrate trying to rid themselves of the obstruction.’
Juliet dialled the surgery number with wobbling fingers. In all the time she’d had Minton, she’d only ever been to the vet for routine boosters and checks. He was hardy, like Ben. Never needed the doctor. She didn’t even know whether there would be anyone there on New Year’s Eve at – she checked her watch – a quarter to ten.
Please pick up, please pick up, she prayed, chewing the hang nail on her spare hand until it stung. Please, please, please . . .
After ten agonising rings, someone answered. ‘Hello, Longhampton vet emergency line?’
Juliet recognised the voice – it was Megan, the Australian veterinary nurse. She worked at the rescue where Diane volunteered, and was the only person Diane knew who could make Coco roll over for a biscuit.
‘Please help me,’ she blurted out. ‘I think my dog’s eaten something. He’s retching, but I can’t feel anything blocking his throat. I don’t know what to do!’
‘OK, step one, calm down,’ said Megan. She was always very calm. ‘You’re not the first person to ring up with a dog who’s helped himself to the Christmas tree this week, and we haven’t lost any of them. So far. Step two, do you know what he’s eaten?’
‘No.’ Juliet glanced over at Minton. His eyes were shut and he was panting. Then he pulled back his lips and tried to vomit, but couldn’t. ‘He was chewing a load of stuff earlier – it could be a button; it could be a bit of shaving brush.’
She pushed away lurid images of what shards of plastic might be tearing Minton’s insides.
‘How long’s he been trying to throw up? Is there any vomit?’
‘Yes, there’s a lot. He . . . he went and hid when I shouted at him for chewing Ben’s things, and that was several hours ago . . .’ Juliet’s voice cracked, but she forced herself not to cry. She owed it to Minton not to lose it now.
‘Is that Juliet?’ asked Megan. ‘And Minton?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, no.’ Megan sounded more concerned for her than Minton. ‘This is just what you don’t need on New Year’s Eve. Listen, Juliet, the best thing you can do is to bring him in right away. I’ll tell George you’re coming and he can check Minton over. He might be dehydrated, and that’s not good for a little guy his size.’ Megan sounded concerned. ‘And are you all right? I know it’s upsetting, but he’ll be fine.’
‘My dog’s choking to death!’
‘Not yet, Juliet,’ said Megan firmly.
Juliet wiped her nose and hung up. ‘It’s going to be OK,’ she said, to Minton. He was shaking, the tremors clearly visible through his thin skin. ‘We’re going to go and see Dr George in the van . . .’
She wobbled as she went to kneel down, and the realisation hit her – she was way over the limit to drive. She’d had at least three shots of gin. Big home shots too, and on an empty stomach.
It’s OK, she thought automatically. Ben can drive and I’ll—
Juliet’s hand flew to her mouth as panic swept through her. There was no Ben. Just her. Minton was seriously ill and she’d trapped them both in the house, with half a bottle of sloe gin.
The panic was followed by a secondary wave of self-loathing. How could she be so stupid? So selfish?
She gripped the kitchen table and stood up. Think logically. Can’t drive the van. No buses. Taxis – need to get a taxi.
Juliet crouched next to Minton, stroking his ear as she dialled. She couldn’t get through to the first two firms in the book, the third was booked up all night, and the fourth had an hour’s wait for the next cab.
Minton was gasping now, but still pathetically licking her hand, trying to apologise for what he’d done. Juliet could barely stop the tears running down her face as she flicked through her phone, trying to find someone who’d be in, someone sober. Someone who wouldn’t mind being rung on New Year’s Eve, by a recent widow probably wanting to howl at them about being alone.
Mum and Dad – she didn’t even know which country they’d be flying over now.
Emer – no, she’d be in New York now too.
Louise. Juliet speed-dialled Louise, but the phone went straight to answer machine. So did Peter’s. Oh, no. They’d be in the restaurant by now, holding hands and talking about The Future.
‘Oh God!’ wailed Juliet. Minton pawed ineffectually at his belly and let out a long, painful sigh. ‘Not you, darling, sorry . . .’
Kim’s phone was off – as it always was when she wasn’t working.
Michael.
Juliet looked at the number in her phone address book and Michael’s capable face rose in her mind’s eye. She hadn’t seen Michael in person since that last awkward meeting with Damson, but there’d been a couple of notes recently, left with the walking money, and she’d scribbled a chatty reply.
He’d got that photograph out of the exhibition and round to her house in about ninety minutes. Michael was exactly the sort of gallant chap who’d gallop to her rescue now. If he wasn’t with his baby daughter. Or some new, less complicated girlfriend.
Juliet’s stomach twisted. She had promised Louise that she would leave that can of worms well alone; but she desperately needed help. If she called Michael it might just tip them back into friendly contact. He might think it was an excuse. She might be so grateful she’d accept his offer of a drink.
Who was more important to her? Minton, or Louise?
Why do I always have to decide these things when I’m on my own? she howled to herself.
The phone vibrated in her hand, as if it was impatient with her.
Juliet pressed the pick-up button without thinking. ‘Hello?’
‘Hey, Juliet! How’re you doing on this final night of the year?’
r /> The voice was familiar, soothing. Relief spread through Juliet like a balloon expanding in her chest, and thoughts of Michael, Louise and anyone else were shoved aside. ‘Lorcan!’ she nearly cried. ‘I so wish you were here right now!’
‘Why? Is there some good craic going round at yours, or have your fuses blown again?’
Juliet sobbed and laughed at the same time, and it turned into a painful cough. ‘No, I’m having a disaster.’
‘Worse than the fuses? Have Louise and Peter landed you with the babysitting?’
‘No, I’m serious. Minton’s choking on something, he’s been sick, I need to get him to the vet’s, and I can’t drive the van because I’ve been on Emer’s sloe gin all night. And there are no taxis, and everyone’s out.’ She paused for breath, because her voice was getting higher and higher. ‘Do you know anyone who could come and get me? Has Alec got a magic car service or something?’
‘Leave it with me,’ said Lorcan, his voice suddenly serious. ‘You stay right there, and don’t panic. Make yourself a cup of coffee. Keep an eye on the little fella. I’ll call you back.’
There was some noise in the background, but Juliet couldn’t make out whether it was a bar or the gig or what.
‘But, Lorcan, aren’t you in . . .’ she began, but he’d rung off.
She sank back onto her heels, cradling Minton in her arms.
‘It’s going to be OK,’ she said. ‘Hang on.’
Because she didn’t know what else to do, Juliet turned the radio back on in the kitchen. It was playing ‘The Boys Are Back in Town’, and she felt a strange sense that the house itself was trying to make her feel as if she wasn’t so alone.
Hurry up, Lorcan, she thought fiercely, as Minton’s breathing became even more laboured. Hurry up.
Chapter 30
Five minutes later, her phone rang again, and it was Lorcan.
‘Are you ready to go?’ he asked, without any preamble. ‘Coat on? Minton ready?’
‘Yes!’ Juliet started to hunt for her shoes, her coat, and Hector leaped off the sofa, thinking they were off for a last walk. ‘No, you stay there,’ she snapped, tugging on a trainer. Coco didn’t move.
‘Got your keys? Your purse?’
‘Yes.’ Juliet had wrapped Minton up in a throw from the sofa, and picked him up gently now, her phone clamped against her shoulder. ‘You two have a nap and listen to the radio,’ she commanded, closing the kitchen door on them. ‘What’s happening?’
The doorbell rang and she hurried down the hall with Minton in her arms. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve flown here,’ she said, only half joking. ‘What was it? Floo powder? Or a Tardis?’
‘Neither,’ said Lorcan, as she opened the door to find an enormous bearded man on the step. ‘It’s my mate Sean, from the DIY superstore. He’s going to take you to the vet’s.’
It was the most ludicrous reaction in the circumstances, Juliet knew, but she felt a tug of disappointment that it wasn’t Lorcan himself standing there.
Sean smiled, revealing several missing teeth. The remaining ones gleamed out of his beard. He looked like a Hell’s Angel Santa. Terrifying but kindly at the same time.
‘He runs a homeless soup kitchen at New Year,’ Lorcan explained. ‘Sean’s the only guy I know who’ll be sober by now. Say hello, he won’t bite.’
‘Hi, Sean,’ said Juliet, then shook herself. ‘Listen, we don’t have time for chit-chat,’ she said to Lorcan.
‘Good, because you won’t get a lot of chit-chat out of him at the best of times. Call me when you get there and let me know what’s going on,’ he said. ‘And give Minton a scratch from his uncle Lorcan, won’t you?’
‘I will.’ Juliet felt herself being bundled, gently, towards yet another builder’s van. ‘Lorcan, if I’ve left it too late, I’ll never . . .’
‘He’s a survivor, is Minton,’ said Lorcan. ‘So are you. You just hang in there, both of you, right?’
Juliet started to thank him again, but Sean fired up the Transit and she couldn’t hear anything above the roar of its ancient engine. Then they were lurching off down her road, past the box hedge where she’d secreted Ben’s memorial bouquet just a couple of months ago, onto the deserted main road and through the night towards the vet’s, Minton’s fragile head laid on her chest like a baby and she forced herself to listen to his ragged breath.
George the vet was outside waiting for her, his broad frame silhouetted in the doorway, when Sean pulled up in a swirl of gravel.
‘He’s very weak,’ she said, as he marched up to the van and took the little dog from her arms.
‘Bloody terriers,’ said George briskly. ‘Second only to Labradors for hoovering up the most unholy rubbish. How is Ten-Ton Tessie, by the way?’
‘Do you mean Coco?’ Diane had warned her that George was on the brutal side of brusque, but she’d always said it with an adoring sigh. Juliet could sort of see why: despite his tetchy air, George was already feeling around Minton’s mouth and throat with a mixture of tenderness and expertise.
‘I do. Lovely girl. Awful plaque. Naughty owner. Right, I think we’re going to have to get this chap in for an x-ray, I’m afraid. Can you come with me, please?’
Juliet turned to wave a grateful goodbye to Sean, then had to jog to keep up with George’s long strides as he hurried back into the brightly lit reception.
Megan was sitting at the desk, ready in her scrubs, and she gave Juliet a smile as George steamed past, barking instructions to her as he went.
‘Wait here and we’ll be with you as soon as we can,’ she said, and followed him out.
Juliet sank onto the nearest chair and stared at a poster about Frontline wormers.
Please don’t let this New Year be as bad as last year, she thought. I don’t have many loved ones to lose.
Juliet had never felt time pass so slowly as the ninety-five minutes that elapsed while Minton was in surgery.
George’s wife came in after an hour to offer her some coffee, which she accepted gladly, and Megan popped her head round the door to let her know that they’d removed a selection of buttons and partly digested plastic shards, but George was having a bit of trouble rehydrating Minton, and wasn’t sure if he’d given himself a bit of poisoning. If she wanted to go home for the night, George’s wife would give her a lift?
Juliet said no, as politely as she could, and insisted on staying until Minton was safely in the recovery unit.
She was dozing off when, at a quarter to twelve, bright lights dazzled the waiting room, and she blinked, startled. A car had pulled up right outside the window, and when the headlights went off, Juliet was left with dancing dark spots in front of her eyes.
Must be someone with an emergency, she thought, as the door was shoved open and a figure in a leather jacket appeared.
‘Juliet? How’s it going?’ It was Lorcan. Anxious, stubbly, a bit whiffy, but there.
Juliet sprang to her feet, but the coffee, the tiredness and the bright light made her wobble, and he reached out to stop her knocking over a display of prescription cat food.
‘Steady on,’ he said, tightening his arms around her as she buried her head in his shoulder. ‘What’s happened? Is he out yet?’
Juliet couldn’t speak. The relief of being held was too much for her. That, and the smell of Lorcan’s leather jacket, and his other smell, the smell of him, so familiar from their hours painting, and him showing her where to grout and file and plane. He smells like home, thought Juliet, out of nowhere, and it made her want to cry, from a bittersweet mingle of emotions.
She pulled herself away before the tears could come. Juliet was done with crying. Her eyes were already aching from this afternoon. She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand and tried not to let Lorcan see how overcome she was.
‘He’s on a drip,’ she said. ‘They’re trying to rehydrate him. If he gets through the next hour, he’ll be OK. If it wasn’t for you, sending Sean round, George says Minton . . . Well. The next hour’s the impo
rtant one.’
Lorcan examined her face. He didn’t need to ask, ‘What if he doesn’t?’
‘Right, then,’ he said, sitting himself down on a chair. ‘We’ll be needing this while we wait.’ He offered her one of his earphones and withdrew a carton of orange juice and a KitKat from his jacket pocket. He patted the seat next to him. ‘You’ll have to budge up a bit. And it’s Free’s Greatest Hits. I was listening to it on the way up. Makes me drive fast.’
Juliet settled herself next to him, so close that his jacket squeaked. ‘You drove up? From Dublin?’
‘Didn’t go to Dublin in the end, went down to London instead.’ He pushed the earphone gently into her ear. ‘Wasn’t drinking, because of having the car and being out with a mate who’s just out of rehab, so I set off when I got your call, and the roads were pretty empty. And like I say, Paul Rodgers is da man for motorway driving.’
‘You drove back? And missed Big Ben? For me? Um, for Minton?’
‘For both of you,’ said Lorcan. ‘Knew the little fella would need bringing home, and thought you’d need some company. Anyway, let the music take your mind off it.’
Their heads were very close and Juliet was finding it hard to concentrate on the tinny sound of 1970s rock fizzing in her left ear, when she could smell Lorcan’s skin. He smelled of old leather, and soap.
Her mouth went dry as she noticed the soft skin around his Adam’s apple, and the dark hairs that started in the hollow of his throat. The earphones were forcing her to look, while he stared straight ahead, drumming his fingers on his tight-jeaned leg.
‘Lorcan, I know you said that—’ she began, but he held up a finger to stop her.
‘Ultimate guitar solo,’ he said, and closed his eyes to appreciate it.
This is weird, thought Juliet. Chained by the ear to a man I – yes, OK – I think I really fancy, but with whom I get on better than any friend I’ve made since . . . well, Ben. She knew it would be really easy to kiss Lorcan now, if she wanted to, but part of her held back. Did he want to? He was sitting very close to her, and hadn’t made a move. And she was scared of losing the friendship she’d started to rely on in her new life. How often did friends like that come along? Friends who’d drive up from London and organise taxis for your dog.