‘I’m fine, Dad. Are you OK?’ Rachel mouthed ‘thank you’ at Natalie as she passed her a fresh cup of tea. ‘It’s just that I’m a bit busy . . .’
‘I won’t keep you,’ said Ken. ‘I was just . . .’ his voice dropped, ‘just wondering how you were getting on with Dot’s things.’
‘Um, fine.’ What was that supposed to mean? ‘There’s a lot of stuff to go through, if that’s what you’re getting at.’
‘I was really meaning her . . . personal effects.’
‘Dad,’ she said, heavily, ‘if there’s something in particular that Mum wants and is too polite to ask for, then either tell her she’s welcome to come and have a root around, or tell me what it is I’m looking for and I’ll—’
‘No, no!’ Ken sounded as if he was having his thumbnails pulled out. ‘All I’m saying is . . . you come across some peculiar things when you’re going through houses. Personal things. Letters. You know.’
‘Actually, I don’t know.’ Rachel racked her brains for whatever it was Ken was too embarrassed to say. Did he know something about Felix? Surely not; he barely liked to talk about his own marriage, let alone other people’s relationships. She was struck by sudden inspiration. ‘Is this something to do with the fall-out Mum and Dot had? Are you saying there’s some kind of letter?’
Now that would make sense. A stinging letter from her mum, listing all Dot’s selfish ways, something she’d always regretted sending – Val’s conscience went back years.
‘Not exactly.’ Rachel could hear her mother’s voice in the background. ‘Anyway,’ Ken went on, in a higher tone, ‘forget I said anything. It’s not important. I’m sure. Your mother wants another word. Bye, love!’
From the confused mutterings on the other end, Rachel got the impression her mother didn’t want a word, because when she came on the line, she didn’t put up any sort of conversational fight, and Rachel was able to hang up within minutes.
‘Family problems?’ asked Natalie.
‘I don’t know.’ Rachel lifted her shoulders, baffled. ‘Who can tell with parents? My mum and Dot had some minor spat going on, you know, typical sisters falling out. I wouldn’t call it a feud. I think Dad thinks there’s going to be some secret cache of family voodoo dolls or something.’
‘Oooh,’ said Natalie. ‘Intriguing!’
‘No. Not ooh. More like Dot stole Gran’s secret lemon curd recipe in 1974, and Mum never forgave her. Or Dot’s boyfriend wore stacked heels to my sister’s christening and the vicar complained. Anyway, where were we?’
‘Sponsorship!’ said Natalie. ‘We were talking about how you need to get business sponsorship to cover the rescue kennel costs.’ She wrote sponsorship at the top of the page with a flourish. ‘I had another look at your figures and I reckon this is what you need to run each kennel space, per year. It’s not a lot, is it? I’ve made a list of all the businesses I think you could approach on the industrial estate, plus the high street solicitors and accountants and the Longhampton Gazette.’ She drew a confident ring around Rachel’s wonky sums. ‘And normal people – you can put a collection box in the surgery, and get the primary school to get involved.’
‘And in return?’ Rachel tried to stoke her brain up to Natalie’s speed, but it wasn’t co-operating. Despite the blissful eight hours of silent countryside sleep she was enjoying each night, she still needed more than strong tea to get going this week. ‘Um, sorry, my mind’s gone blank.’
‘Are you OK?’ asked Natalie, peering more closely at her.
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ She rubbed her eyes. Megan had a cold – it was probably that. ‘You know what? I think my London germ immunity’s finally wearing off. I thought the day would never come.’
‘It’s probably delayed stress,’ said Natalie. ‘Having to deal with the house, and your break-up and everything all at once. You’ve done an amazing job so far. ’
‘Oh, I don’t know. But thanks.’ Rachel wasn’t sure she should really take the sympathy, but it felt nice, the sad way Natalie was smiling at her.
She wouldn’t if she knew you were a husband-stealer, she reminded herself. Even a failed one.
‘OK, um, sponsorship.’ Rachel made her brain swerve away from that uncomfortable topic. ‘What if we make updates from the dogs to the sponsors, to put on their office kitchen wall? Like I did with the posters?’
‘Exactly! And you and Megan take the dogs to the school to do talks about keeping pets responsibly. Take the least licky dogs to the old folks’ home for an afternoon’s stroking. We can talk to Lauren at the surgery about therapy dogs – she’s already got a poster up about dog walking for health.’
‘You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you?’
Natalie shrugged modestly. ‘I don’t have a lot else to think about right now. Turns out I’m not as good at relaxing at home as I thought I’d be. Have you decided what you’re going to do about the boarding kennels, though? Because you might as well relaunch the whole lot at the same time. Presumably that was how Dot was funding the rescue operation? From the boarding fees?’
Rachel wasn’t sure. From what she could make out from the accounts, the kennels had barely been turning a profit and for all she knew, Dot was paying for everything from her diamond necklace tree in the garden. But whether she decided to stay, or sell, it made sense to get things up and running.
‘Yup, that’s a good idea,’ she said. ‘Now we’ve got the internet coming to Four Oaks, a mere decade after everyone else.’
Natalie looked amazed. ‘There was no internet before? No website?’
‘No website. I’ve been on email detox since I arrived. But there will be from this weekend,’ said Rachel. ‘I’m calling in some favours. I reckon that should get some tragic mutts moving.’
‘What you need is an Open Day to get everyone up here to see what you do.’ Natalie drew a large cloud around the words Open Day and started jotting out spikes. ‘When they see the dogs, they’ll just melt like we did, and when they see how nice your kennels are, they’ll all want to book their pets in this summer. Double effects! Now, what do you need to make people fall in love with Four Oaks Boarding Kennels? You’re the PR expert,’ she added, generously.
‘Face-painting,’ said Rachel, solemnly. ‘And maybe a hog roast. That’s what the website geeks used to like, anyway.’
Natalie’s expression froze, until she realised Rachel was joking. ‘Oh, very funny. I was thinking more of competitions everyone can win. Like, Scruffiest Ears, and Most Loving Pet. You have to have a Pet Most Like Owner competition, just so Bertie and Johnny can win it. I don’t know who spends most time lurking round the fridge.’ She pointed her pen at Rachel. ‘I’ve got it. Super-tear-jerking – invite all the happily rehomed pets back for a reunion with their old friends!’
‘You are a marketing genius, Natalie.’ Rachel nodded approvingly. ‘That will make the best local newspaper story ever.’
‘So, when?’
‘Ah.’ Rachel pulled a face. ‘That’s a problem. Not until I’ve got probate – there’s a huge bill to pay on account, then they give me the keys officially. But we can get it all planned and then launch it onto an unsuspecting public as soon as I get the go-ahead.’ She pushed the plate of chocolate biscuits nearer Natalie. ‘I don’t want to take up all your time, though. I’m sure you’ve got much better things to be doing than helping me run dog shows.’
‘You’re welcome. Don’t tell Johnny but I’m glad of a distraction,’ sighed Natalie. Now Rachel looked closer, there were bags under her round green eyes and she seemed strained.
‘Is it Bertie?’
‘No! No, he’s lovely.’ Natalie hesitated, then rushed on. ‘No, we’re waiting for the results of some tests. You know, the bloods I had to go for the other day, when you minded Bertie for me? I probably said, we’re trying for a baby and this is the next step.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Rachel. She never knew what to say when it came to trying for babies. She’d spent most of her
life going to some lengths not to get pregnant; it seemed perverse how hard it seemed to be when you actually wanted one. ‘Have you, er, been trying long?’
‘Over a year. Feels like longer.’ Natalie bit into a chocolate biscuit. ‘Sorry, it’s not really something to chat about but it sort of takes over your brain.’ She smiled weakly. ‘Sorry. Bit too much information.’
‘You’ll be fine. The tests’ll be fine.’ Rachel wanted to be encouraging. Natalie looked so crestfallen, compared to her sunny confidence when they’d been mapping out the Open Day.
Natalie sighed. ‘I don’t know, though. We’ve been so happy, me and Johnny. I don’t know how he’ll cope if I can’t . . .’
Megan announced her presence with a huge sneeze. ‘Rachel, sorry, it’s—’ She sneezed again, into a big white handkerchief. ‘There’s someone to see you – she came round to the kennels, but she said she wanted to talk to you.’
Natalie pressed her lips together and Rachel felt bad that the moment had gone. She turned round reluctantly. ‘Did she say what about?’
‘No, but she was looking at the dogs.’ Megan smiled, wrinkled her nose to hold back the sneeze, then sneezed again. ‘Seemed quite interested in Tinker, actually. She looks like a West Highland White sort of woman.’
‘Which is what?’ Natalie raised a curious eyebrow.
‘Oh, you know.’ Megan wiped her nose. ‘Middle-aged. Nicely dressed, well-spoken. Gilet.’
‘Sort of woman who likes a dog to be about the same size as her largest bag,’ added Rachel. ‘And with hair that won’t clog her Dyson. Natalie, don’t look at me like I’m a psychic, you get to read the types very quickly.’
‘And me and Johnny – were we obviously Basset types?’ asked Natalie.
‘No,’ said Megan. ‘I thought you’d go for Treacle, the Lab. Johnny’s more of a Labrador kind of guy and you’re . . .’
‘Go on,’ said Natalie good-humouredly. ‘I can take it.’
‘All right, Megan, you stay here and dig yourself out of that.’ Rachel got up from the table, and felt her head swim. She made a mental note to get some Berocca on the next grocery run, before Megan’s cold took hold. ‘Listen, Natalie, can you hang on for ten minutes? This won’t take long.’
‘No problem.’ Natalie settled back and at once Bertie stirred from his slumber by the Aga and began to gaze hopefully at the biscuits. ‘So, Megan. You were saying.’
When Rachel pushed the office door open, the woman visitor wasn’t flicking through leaflets or peering around to see the dogs as most visitors did. She was simply waiting, arms folded across her sheepskin gilet.
‘Rachel?’ She stepped forward, looking her up and down.
‘Yes, hello.’ Rachel offered her hand to shake. ‘Sorry, Megan didn’t give me your name!’
Megan was right – this was a classic Westie owner. The lady was dressed in stylish jeans that were a fraction too high-waisted, with a camel polo neck the same colour as her highlighted mass of hair.
‘Kath.’ Her shiny pink lips curved into a smile of quiet amusement, as she took Rachel’s hand and gave it a limp squeeze. ‘Kath Wrigley. How funny. I thought you’d be younger.’
In all her walks with Gem, rehearsing the things she would say to Oliver’s wife if they ever met, Rachel hadn’t planned for this.
She’d planned for Kath raging out of control, Kath tragically telling her how she’d nearly wrecked her marriage, Kath smugly reminding her she’d pulled it back from the brink. Usually Rachel apologised beautifully but maintained a dignified defence that she had loved Oliver, no matter how wrong it had been.
She hadn’t planned for Kath turning up and giving her a pitying but not aggressive once-over, as though she was a curiosity, not a threat.
‘And I always imagined you’d be blonde,’ Kath added, more to herself than to Rachel.
Rachel withdrew her hand, and tried to recall some of her better lines, but she couldn’t. ‘Always imagined?’ she blurted out. ‘How long have you known about me?’
‘Oh, years. Years! Don’t take this the wrong way, Rachel,’ said Kath, ‘but it’s rather naive to think a wife wouldn’t notice her husband of twenty-two years is having an affair. I could tell from the difference in aftershave which days he was seeing you. Thursdays, wasn’t it?’
The simple intimacy sliced through Rachel like a paper cut and the wounds she thought had begun to heal over stung again.
‘I even know when your birthday is,’ Kath went on. ‘July the nineteenth. He wasn’t as clever as he thought. I mean, come on! The mysterious long weekend with clients, when they’re all on holiday? And then the shirts you preferred, the tiffs you had, the moisturiser you gave him that he pretended his PA got . . .’
Rachel couldn’t bear any more. Kath was making it sound so trivial – her ten-year love affair with the man who’d been as much hers as Kath’s. ‘So if you knew, why didn’t you say anything?’
Kath’s eyebrows raised in mock surprise. ‘Why didn’t I say anything? Why would I want to?’
‘You didn’t mind someone else sleeping with your husband of twenty-two years? You minded enough to drag him back. Why wait so long?’
Rachel’s heart was pounding despite her vow to keep cool. It was worse than when she’d actually broken it off with Oliver. Now she felt rejected and humiliated. She’d prepared herself to put on her sackcloth and ashes, but Kath was talking as if she didn’t even want her apology. Didn’t care one way or another what Rachel felt.
‘I didn’t wait.’ Kath sighed. ‘Oh, dear. I was wondering on my way here whether you’d be one of those cynical gold-diggers who was just in it for the minibreaks, or whether you’d be a silly romantic who thought he’d leave me for you.’
‘You never thought I might actually be in love with him?’ Rachel struggled to keep her voice under control. ‘Or that he might have been in love with me?’
‘No.’ Kath looked at her with beady eyes and Rachel saw several years’ worth of expensive Botox in her forehead. ‘Especially not at your age. I thought you’d at least be smarter than that. I mean, come on, darling! You work in PR! Aren’t you used to people spinning you a line? Oliver’s lying was what paid for our houses.’
Rachel summoned up what little dignity she felt she had left, given that she was wearing a pair of mud-streaked jeans and not enough make-up for a face-off with her lover’s wife. Ex-lover’s wife.
‘Fine. You’ve had your gloat,’ she said, tightly. ‘I’m sorry for what happened. It’s over, as you now know. You’ve got Oliver back, I’ve left my job, so can you please leave?’
‘Oh, but I haven’t got the little shit back,’ said Kath, surprised. ‘What on earth made you think that?’
The Staffies had started to play fight with each other, but Rachel didn’t hear. ‘But he went back to you. That’s why I sent you the flat keys.’
‘Oh no. No, no. He’s dumped us both, Rachel. Oliver and his midlife crisis has skipped off with Tara, his tennis coach.’ Kath spoke slowly. ‘It’s all over our village, the stupid, thoughtless bastard. I’m going to have to divorce him now, and that means all hell breaking loose. Oh, it wasn’t so bad with you,’ she went on, as Rachel’s jaw dropped. ‘I didn’t have to see you. You kept him out from under my feet, kept him amused. You were the reason I got my own holidays after fifteen years – I didn’t mind you.’
She said it with such distaste that Rachel felt cheapness spread over her like a rash. She’d been an itch-scratcher, nothing more.
‘But he never even mentioned a Tara,’ she whispered. A sudden insanity to know what this Tara looked like gripped her, what Tara sounded like, whether she was better, thinner, funnier than her.
Kath saw Rachel’s distress and patted her on the arm. ‘You don’t need to imagine very hard, sweetie. Just imagine what a midlife crisis looks like. She’s blonde. About twenty-five. Flexible – in all sorts of ways, I should think.’
‘Is he going to . . . marry her?’ Rachel’s voice was almo
st a croak.
‘More like is she going to marry him. I doubt it. Especially once she realises how little he’ll have left after everything’s split fifty-fifty, less school fees. But it’s his own fault. He could have stayed with you, seen his middle age out, retired in some comfort but now . . .’ She shrugged. ‘I came to give you these back.’
She dropped the flat keys into Rachel’s hand. Rachel stared at them with dull eyes. Her own Tiffany keyring was still on there, the one Oliver had given her for a thirty-fifth birthday present. She saw it for the first time: a tiny silver house, so perfect and safe. A house probably very like the one he’d driven back to, after making love to her.
‘Thanks for sending them. I just wish you’d seen his face when I worked out what was going on. He thought it was so neat and tidy – you’d finished with him, leaving him free to carry on with his bimbo, and me none the wiser about either of you. As it was, you tipped me off – so I thought the least I could do was to set you straight as well.’ She leaned forward and Rachel got a noseful of Chanel No. 5. ‘I don’t know if Oliver ever told you, but that flat belongs to him, not the agency. And if I were you, I’d get back in there and claim squatter’s rights or something. Because there won’t be much left once my solicitor’s had a good go.’
Rachel stumbled back into the house, trying desperately to stop the tears, but they flooded down her face and sent great choking waves up her throat. These would be proper hiccupping full body sobs in about a minute’s time, and she knew there was no way of stopping them.
She knew now she’d been coasting through on shock alone. All her grief now wasn’t for Oliver, it was for the mess she’d made of her own chances, and it made her want to curl up somewhere like a wounded animal, and die.
Oh God, she thought, Natalie was still in the kitchen. How could she get rid of her?
Too late. Natalie had heard her coming back into the house and was already approaching with last week’s Longhampton Gazette.
‘I’ve had a look through here and I reckon you could take out a whole page ad for virtually nothing,’ she said, eyes shining with project-managing zeal. ‘It would look . . . Rachel? Are you OK?’