There was a collective sigh of relief from the Felixes and Guy lowered Twiggy gently back into her home. He ushered them out of the door, wearing his best professional smile, but he knew that it didn’t reach his heart. Cheryl gave him a look to turn water to ice as she caught his eye. As soon as she was out of the way he’d check the diary to see when his next weekend off was rostered. He needed to go down to London and examine Hamish to see how he was getting on with his fixator, if nothing else. Who was he kidding? He was simply trying to conjure up an excuse to see Amy again. While his receptionist continued to try to freeze his blood with her stare, he could do nothing but think how he could make things right again.
‘It’s nothing serious,’ the family told Cheryl with obvious joy before they left.
He only hoped that this wasn’t one of those cases where the Felix family would turn up next morning with Twiggy flat on her back on the floor, legs in the air. That, like the woman you love leaving town for ever, was always a bad start to the day.
‘What’s up next?’ Guy asked, rubbing his hands together keenly.
‘Mrs Harris.’ Cheryl nodded across the reception area and sure enough the good lady and her lovely dog, Megan, were sitting there waiting patiently for him.
‘Hello, Megan.’ Guy bent to stroke the dog. He had a terrible flashback to what had happened last time the poor animal had paid them a visit. A close encounter of the Hamish kind, that’s what. Guy shuddered to think of it. Instead, he smiled at the bitch’s owner. ‘What seems to be the problem this time, Mrs Harris?’
The lady looked round, concerned, and lowered her voice to a whisper even though there was no one else but him and Cheryl in the waiting area. ‘I think Megan’s “with child”, Mr Burton,’ she intimated. ‘And I’ve absolutely no idea how that happened.’
But, unfortunately for Guy, he did.
Chapter Ninety-Three
When we arrive in London the light is fading and it’s bucketing down. So much for the milder climate of the south. It’s taken us hours to crawl here across Town, grid-locked in traffic from the north of London – nearly as long as it took us to whizz down the motorway from Yorkshire.
Whilst trying not to tear out my hair, I drive round and round and round, hoping to find a parking place for the Land Rover. Eventually, we find one miles away from the flat and I’m going to have to be out here at some ungodly hour in the morning to move it before the clampers come along. I’ll have to get on to the council about a resident’s parking permit first thing tomorrow, before I am given a yellow boot.
Milly Molly Mandy has made the journey an interesting one by puking up all the way here. The car pongs of cat sick. Hamish hasn’t stopped barking since Birmingham, unlike the children who stopped speaking to each other shortly after we passed Leicester Forest Services. This was shortly after my younger child stopped crying about leaving Stuart Little the Lamb behind.
As the flats of Lancaster Court have a no pets policy – in capital letters on the lease agreement, I seem to recall – I’m going to have to move heaven and earth to get Mils and Hamish inside unseen. How would I have fared with a damn lamb? Pet smuggling won’t be so difficult in the case of a small cat cage, I think. Our feline friend will simply get a towel thrown over her. But how the hell am I going to get a great lump like Hamish indoors without any of the neighbours noticing? The dog wags his tail at me as if reading my thoughts. ‘Oh, Hamish,’ I say, a note of exasperation creeping into my voice. ‘What am I going to do with you?’
I have all this to worry about – and yet has anyone given a thought to what might be going on in my mind? No. I have driven away from my husband’s dream life, riven with doubts and wracked with guilt.
‘Come on,’ I say to the kids. ‘We’re here. Just a short walk to the flat.’ Well, short-ish. At one point I thought we were going to end up parking back in Yorkshire. How had I managed to forget all these delights in the months that I’ve been away?
Out of the car and I get the scabby car blanket from the boot and throw it over Milly Molly Mandy’s cage. She miaows in complaint and I know that I’ll get a set of claws in the leg later when I’m least expecting it as repayment for her undignified treatment. Tom hauls Hamish out onto the pavement and the dog immediately wees up the parking meter we’ve stopped next to and then barks out his relief to anyone who cares to listen. He gives a cursory chew at his fixator which is still firmly in place and we set off towards the flat, me and my ragamuffin bunch of companions looking like we’ve fallen off a flitting. As we get round the block from the apartment, I shrug out of my coat and throw it over Hamish, who promptly shrugs it off.
‘No, no, you silly dog,’ I tell him. ‘You’ve got to wear it. We need to disguise you to get you into the flats.’ I pull the coat over him again. This time he tolerates it. Fantastic. I stand back and regard him. Great. Now he looks like a dog disguised as a dog in a coat. Sighing, I think, Sod it. We can’t go through this every time he needs to go out for a wee – unless we only take him out in the dead of the night. Now there’s a thought.
I clamp my hand over his muzzle in an attempt to stop Hamish signalling our arrival with his customary barking as we cover the last part of the street and head up to the front door. The block looks much more utilitarian and drab than I remember and my spirits don’t lift. We have no choice now that we’ve come this far though and, with that thought in mind, we go inside.
Once we’re in the flat, I’m relieved to see that Serena has done a great job with the furniture. On first glance it doesn’t look too bad, even though there are a load of cardboard boxes piled into the living room and there’s not much space left on the kitchen floor either. Give me a couple of days though and this will be looking fine and dandy. Oh goodness, I do hope so.
Tom and Jessica hang behind me. ‘Are we really going to live here?’ my daughter asks. ‘It’s not a joke?’
‘No, darling,’ I said. ‘It’s only for the time being, but this is where we live now.’ She looks as if she’s about to burst into tears. ‘You said you liked it when we looked round.’
‘I didn’t like it,’ she insists. ‘But it wasn’t as horrible as everywhere else.’
‘We’ll make it homely in no time,’ I assure her.
She gives me her all-adults-are-liars face.
Then the doorbell rings and rescues me. Hamish barks as usual, and as I go to open the door I have a momentary flash of blind panic. Suppose it’s the landlord come to check that we’re all right? Suppose, even worse, that he wants to come inside to check if we’re all right? We’re going to have to find a secret hiding-place for Hamish and Milly Molly Mandy, should the occasion arise. And gag Hamish. Why did I not consider until now just how much noise he’s capable of making? Something else for me to think about. It’s too late for now though, I’m already at the door and, if it is the landlord, he will have already heard Hamish’s greeting. I open it a crack and then breathe out a sigh of relief when I realise that it’s only my sister standing there.
‘What?’ she snaps when she sees the look on my face. ‘Did you think it was someone come to mug you on your first night back in the smoke?’
‘I thought it was the landlord,’ I say, ‘and, as we’ve got two illegal immigrants here, I was starting to panic.’
‘Oh, cripes,’ she says. ‘Forgot about that.’
‘Well, I hadn’t.’
I let her in and she gives me a bunch of flowers and a kiss while trying to dislodge our hound from her leg.
‘It’s not too bad, is it?’ I ask.
Serena wrinkles her nose. ‘It’s horrible,’ she whispers. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw it yesterday. Whatever possessed you?’
‘Price,’ I tell her. ‘There was nothing else in our budget that wasn’t on the condemned list. At least this is clean and newly decorated.’
‘Fabulous. If beige is your favourite colour.’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ I point out.
‘Oh, sis,’ she says
. ‘Have you really done the right thing? You’ve left that massive house for this?’
‘You were the one encouraging me to come back to London.’
‘I was, wasn’t I?’ Serena agrees. ‘Wonder why I did that?’
‘You tell me.’
As a distraction technique, she nods at the flowers. ‘Think you might find a vase in this lot?’
‘Not now,’ I say, suddenly very weary. ‘I’ll put them in the sink for the time being.’
The kids have disappeared into their respective bedrooms to stake claim to their toys again. As my sister talks to me I rummage about in the boxes in the kitchen to find the kettle; I’m absolutely gasping for a hot drink. I picked up some milk and bread at one of the service stations even though our pit stops on the way down were as brisk as they could be because you can’t leave Hamish in the car alone for more than three minutes without him trying to eat it.
‘You will like it here?’ Serena says, chewing her lip. ‘Not here, per se, but back in London, I mean?’
‘I do hope so.’ The kettle boils. Not a moment too soon.
‘How did you leave things with Guy?’ she asks.
‘Badly,’ I tell her. ‘I think that he wants more than I can offer.’
‘That’s a shame,’ she offers. ‘He looked like a keeper to me.’
I shrug as if I’m unconcerned, but I am concerned, I just can’t afford to show it; I can’t afford to feel it. ‘I’m just looking forward to getting back to work, getting back to the life we used to have.’ I try a laugh, but it sits uneasily. ‘Bring it on!’
Chapter Ninety-Four
It’s eight o’clock and still dark when we sneak Hamish out of the flat for his morning constitutional in the little park across the street. The dog limps a bit on his newly mended back leg but, thankfully, he seems undeterred by this minor handicap.
The small green space is tiny and hemmed in by railings all round that need a new coat of paint, but Hamish immediately becomes demented even though he’s still supposed to be having only light exercise, and strains to be let off the lead. There’s litter strewn everywhere and I hope that there aren’t any discarded junkies’ needles or used condoms in it. I realise the only thing we’ve had to watch for out on the moors is stepping in a minefield of poo from a variety of creatures. The dangers are of a different sort entirely here and it’s funny how soon you forget that. Once, not so very long ago, I would have wandered round a park like this and would have thought that it was quite pleasant.
After a couple of days getting used to the flat, Tom and Jessica are due to start their new school this morning, and it’s fair to say that neither of them are looking forward to the experience. My children’s faces would indicate that they’re about to go to the guillotine rather than a modern, inner-city primary school.
Reluctantly, I acquiesce to my dog’s demands and let Hamish off the lead even though that’s against vet’s orders. My heart squeezes as I think of Guy, but I push the thought away. My hound immediately charges away like a speeding bullet, not realising that before long he’s going to careen headlong into the railings that bound the other end of the park. I’m probably going to be wresting his head out of them before long. Can just see it coming.
‘It will be okay today,’ I reassure my children as they trail morosely in my wake.
Jessica sighs. ‘This isn’t exactly Yorkshire, is it?’
How am I going to deal with her when she’s sixteen rather than six? I shudder to think.
‘Give it a chance,’ I encourage her. ‘You didn’t like St Mary’s either when you first started there.’
My daughter chooses to ignore this comment, realising for once that her mother just might be right.
‘I didn’t go to sleep,’ Tom says with a weary yawn. ‘The cars were noisy and kept me awake.’
Me too. By dawn, lorries were thundering past our window, trying to shake the glass out of its frames. How different from being woken by nothing but the sound of tweeting birds. Still, I’m sure we’ll get used to it. This flat is not our permanent home. It’s a temporary measure, that’s all. Plus we all used to live in London before and managed to sleep perfectly well. I’m sure we did. Now my eyes feel like they’re being sandpapered by my eyelids. Don’t quite know how I’m going to stay awake for the rest of the day. Excess caffeine is probably the answer. I used to live on artificial stimulants when I was a high-powered executive before; I doubt it will be any different second time around.
At the end of the park, I hear a commotion. And, although it’s dark and I can’t quite see what’s going on, I know instantly who’s causing it. ‘Come on,’ I say to the kids. And, as one, we charge off towards the sound of Hamish’s joyous barking. When our dog is sounding at his most happy, it’s when I become most worried.
Sure enough, as we reach the end of the path, we come upon Hamish. My unruly mutt is currently trying to roger a prissy-looking little dog that might or might not be a Pomeranian. Whatever it is, it’s clearly not enjoying the rather robust sexual attentions of a rufty-tufty, twelve-stone Gordon Setter. Nor, it seems, is the dog’s owner. The woman is small, elderly and is wearing an old-fashioned, buttoned-up coat with a fur hat. She’s currently battering Hamish around his rather thick skull with a pink rolled-up umbrella. Hamish, gamely, is clearly thinking that this is a pleasant addition to the experience. He woofs in appreciation.
‘Is this your dog?’ she screams at me.
For a moment, I consider denying Hamish, but I have the damning evidence of a dog leash in my hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ I pant breathlessly as we all dash up to interrupt Hamish’s bit of fun.
‘Get him away from my Lou-Lou,’ she shouts. ‘Just get him away.’
I haul Hamish off the poor, traumatised Pom and clip his lead on again. ‘He’s only playing,’ I say brightly.
‘Playing? He was trying to force himself upon my poor little girl! I will get you and that thing barred from this park if he does that again,’ she warns, wagging a bony finger at me.
Hope she’s not one of my near neighbours. I’d forgotten just how unfriendly people in London can be. We can’t have Hamish banned as this is the only bit of greenery near to us. From now on I’ll have to keep him on a tight leash. Poor Hamish, I think.
‘Sheep and Pot-Bellied Pigs are one thing, Hamish,’ I whisper to him as he whines miserably when the object of his unrequited love limps away. ‘You’ve got to remember that dogs round here are soft, southern shandies. You’ll have to modify your courtship behaviour or you’re going to get us into a lot of trouble.’
Unperturbed, my dog pees on the nearest tree. What on earth’s going to happen to Hamish when I go back to work? Lots of people leave their dogs at home all day, but those dogs aren’t Hamish. I’m not going to be able to leave him in the flat all day without him trying to eat it, and I certainly can’t take him into the office with me. Can you imagine the chaos he’d cause? Something else it seems that I haven’t quite thought through.
It pains me to have to admit it, but I can’t manage without help. I called our ex-nanny’s mobile phone again to see if Maya could come to my rescue in the short term, as I could certainly do with her calm, efficient help now – but a tinny electronic voice told me that the number I was calling was out of service. Perhaps her employers have given her a whizzy new phone or something. Or she changed her number to stop me calling her and begging her to come back. And I realise that I feel hurt that she’s never got in touch with us at all since Will died.
Before I do anything else, I must go into the nearest employment agency today and fix myself up with a reliable nanny and bulletproof dogsitter with nerves of steel.
Chapter Ninety-Five
‘Get a move on, you two.’ I encourage my children to be speedy with their breakfast by tidying up around them. Wanted the jam? Too late, back in the fridge. I haven’t been able to eat anything myself, as my stomach is too nervous. Instead of feeling like a seasoned professional embarking on a new stage in h
er career, I feel as if I’m going to my first day at school – and it helps me to understand how daunting this must be for Tom and Jessica.
This is the first time I’d realised how leisurely our start to the day was at Helmshill Grange, with the school at the end of the road and me not having a tight timetable to stick to. ‘We need to leave in five minutes,’ I tell the kids. ‘Less.’
They both slide down from their stools at the work surface and head towards their coats. Good, good.
‘I want you to behave too.’ I wag my finger at Hamish, who has already found his favourite spot in the kitchen, lying exactly where we all trip over him. His tail pounds the floor. I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but he seems a bit quiet this morning. My alarm went off at some hideous hour so that I could sneak the dog out of the building and across the road to the park before anyone else was awake. He did his business without fuss, didn’t try to roger anything, not even the benches, no towing me behind him like a waterskier while he went to investigate some wonderful smell he’d discovered, no rolling in something completely unsavoury. It was like walking a different dog. ‘You okay?’ I ask him and he rolls doleful eyes at me. ‘I don’t want you eating the flat while we’re out. Get it?’
I take the listless thump of his tail as tacit agreement.
‘All you have to do is hang on until lunchtime and Kati will be here to take you out for a long W.A.L.K.’
My visit to Au Pair Positions was a great success. The very helpful young lady in the agency fixed me up with an Estonian girl – the aforementioned Kati – who’s now gainfully employed to look after Jessica, Tom and Hamish. Milly Molly Mandy, as always, can look after herself.
Kati is a slim blonde with slightly scary eye make-up and more holes in her ears than a colander, but otherwise seemed like a perfectly pleasant specimen of human nature and competent to boot. She’s over here ostensibly as a language student, despite speaking five different tongues fluently already. Our new au pair is supposed to be as reliable as rain in summer, marvellous with children, a lover of animals – even Hamish, it seems – and could beat Jamie Oliver hands down in a cook-off. I snapped her up immediately.