*
‘She was a rescue dog,’ Brigid explains as they follow the worn stone steps down onto the sand. ‘We don’t know her exact age but we reckon around ten or eleven.’
‘Is that really old?’ Kerry asks. ‘I keep realising how little I know about dogs.’
‘Oh, Roxy’s a veteran all right,’ Brigid says, casting her a fond glance, ‘and the softest girl in the world, despite Staffies’ reputations.’
‘Well, she’s still got her looks,’ Kerry says. ‘She’s a real beauty.’
‘She’s nearly as old as Mummy,’ Joe announces, all traces of ill-humour having now disappeared.
‘In dog years, she’s more like Granny’s age,’ Brigid laughs.
‘Well, I hope Buddy’s as good-natured,’ Kerry says.
‘Where are you getting him from?’
Kerry fills her in on the ad, and the owner’s brusqueness on the phone. ‘If that was my dog, I wouldn’t just hand him over to the first person to call,’ she says. ‘I’d want to make sure they were suitable. But he didn’t ask me anything – whether anyone’s at home during the day, or if we have a garden …’
‘Strange,’ Brigid agrees.
‘It’s as if he just wants to be rid of him.’
‘He’s a lucky dog then,’ she says as Joe tears away to the rock pools, dishevelled hair flying in the light October breeze. Brigid lets out a snort. ‘So much for him being ill. He knows I’m a pushover, that’s the problem. A soft touch that he can wrap around his little finger, being just the two of us.’
Kerry looks at her and smiles, suddenly picturing Brigid as a younger woman; partying in Ibiza or Goa with a bunch of similarly bronzed, leggy girls. And she finds herself telling her all about Rob: his fortieth birthday night out, the Impregnation, and the terrible days that have followed.
‘That’s awful,’ Brigid exclaims. ‘I’d never have imagined, Kerry – not even that day I saw the two of you having coffee in Hattie’s. God. You seemed so together.’
Kerry smiles wryly. ‘I imagine they’re engraving my name on that Oscar right now.’
‘Well, I think you’re amazing.’
‘Not at all,’ Kerry says briskly. ‘If it was just me, alone, I’d be lying on the sofa with a bottle of gin and the curtains shut. But you can’t, can you? Children have to be up for school and dressed and fed. It’s good for me, actually. They force me to carry on because, however wretched I might feel, it’s not just about me. They’re affected as well, and that’s the main reason I’m getting Buddy.’
‘It’s something new and positive,’ Brigid remarks, nodding. ‘I can understand that.’ She gives Joe a little wave – he’s now soaked to the knees from jumping into the rock pools – then turns back to Kerry. ‘I lend Roxy out sometimes, you know. To friends, I mean.’
‘What for?’
‘Oh, she always gets the guys.’
‘You mean male dogs? Still up for that, is she?’
‘No, no, I mean men,’ Brigid laughs. ‘Think about it. Apart from babies – which are a pretty powerful man-deterrent, let’s face it – what’s the best conversation opener you can think of?’
Kerry shrugs. ‘No idea.’
‘Being out with your dog, of course. You’ll be amazed how many people you meet. You know that just about everyone has at least one around here – it’s almost mandatory …’
Although Kerry doesn’t want to overstep the mark and scare off the sole tentative connection she’s made here, she is desperate to ask about Brigid’s love life. She likes the fact that the custard-yellow bag slung over her shoulder is rather battered looking, and would be considered a little trashy around these parts. She enjoys her loud, throaty laugh, and the fact that her child clearly isn’t impeccably behaved.
‘So have you met anyone that way?’ she ventures. ‘Using Roxy as a sort of matchmaker, I mean.’
Brigid chuckles. ‘I have actually. There was David with the King Charles spaniel – sweet, but a disgustingly noisy eater – then Jason with the Labradoodle, who’d never got over his ex, and the last one, Mike with the Doberman pinscher, typical posh boy – you know how they are around here …’
‘Wow,’ Kerry marvels. ‘That’s pretty impressive.’
‘Told you, Kerry, a dog’s a wonderful thing. For children, too – they’re a special friend they can talk to.’
Kerry nods, her throat tightening at the thought of Freddie and Mia perhaps confiding in Buddy about their father’s departure and new baby. Although they seemed to accept the new information, Freddie’s question about Rob – Will he still be our daddy? – still rings hollowly in her ears.
‘Well,’ she says, checking her watch, ‘guess I’d better head off to school.’
Brigid smiles. ‘It’s been really nice bumping into you today.’
‘I’ve enjoyed it too. Thanks for cheering me up.’ She waves goodbye to Joe, then adds, ‘What book was it, by the way? The one Joe wanted in the charity shop …’
‘Oh, that,’ Brigid laughs. ‘It was one of those Thomas the Tank Engines. I can’t bear them in the house, can you? Gordon and Henry and the Fat Controller. God …’ She shudders.
‘Yes, we had a year when Freddie would have nothing else at bedtime.’ Kerry laughs dryly. ‘Maybe that’s what drove Rob into the arms of another woman.’
Brigid smiles, then gives her a quick, unexpected hug before adding, ‘Listen, you can call me any time, okay? I only work three days a week, in the library. A lot of the time we’re just pottering about, especially at weekends. Let’s exchange numbers.’
‘Great,’ Kerry says, whipping out her phone. As they part company, she turns to see Joe throw a stick for Roxy as Brigid strides towards them. Despite all that’s happened, Kerry feels a little lighter as she makes her way to school. She’s certain now that getting a dog is completely the right thing to do, for all the reasons Brigid mentioned. But also, she realises with a smile, because Rob is most definitely not a dog person.
Chapter Nineteen
‘She doesn’t even like dogs,’ Rob tells Simon, clutching his bottle of beer and a cigarette outside the Soho pub. ‘It’s so out of character. She’s not one of those people who stops and strokes them in parks. In fact she’s always been a bit nervous of them, ever since one nipped her on the ankle when she was a little girl …’
He can sense Simon, his old editor and friend, appraising him over the rim of his glass of red wine. It’s disconcerting, being regarded with a mixture of incredulity and barely-disguised disapproval.
‘I don’t see why this is a big deal,’ he says levelly.
‘Well, I just don’t think she’s thought it through.’
Simon blinks at him. Although his neatly-cropped hair is far more salt than pepper these days, he’s looked younger – and certainly happier – since he was kicked off Mr Jones and shunted down to Tram Enthusiast’s basement offices. It’s as if time operates on a different system down there in the bowels of the building. In contrast, Rob feels as if he has aged with astonishing speed these past few weeks. His heart feels leaden,