Love is a Four-Legged Word: The romantic comedy about canines, conception and fresh starts Read online

  ‘Your dog weed on my baby!’ the irate mother said.

  ‘Well, technically, he weed on your pram wheel. I am sorry. Here.’ Shannon rummaged around in her giant shoulder bag. ‘I have a bottle of water. You can wash it off. It’s here somewhere.’ As she sank to her knobbly knees to dump her bag on the pavement, she looked like a crane toppling over.

  A sketch pad got caught in the lining and several coloured pencils rolled off the kerb. ‘Oh, here, it was stuck in my jumper.’

  ‘I don’t want your water,’ the woman snapped. ‘I’ll have to disinfect it now to get the wee off.’

  ‘You’ve probably wheeled through worse stuff, you know,’ Shannon pointed out as the woman stomped off down the park path. ‘Just saying.’

  Shannon glared at the dog. ‘You are so not worth your fee.’

  Sampson wheezily panted up at her, tongue sticking out through his underbite.

  Fifi and Clive looked down their black poodle noses at the bulldog. What a philistine.

  Not that you two are a piece of cake, either, she thought.

  If you’d told her five years ago that she’d be a professional dog walker one day, she’d have laughed in your face. Actually, since she didn’t know you really well, she probably would have blushed, mumbled something and run away.

  It wasn’t because she disliked dogs. She loved them, in fact. But she was in art school. Dog poo wasn’t a medium she’d planned to work with full-time.

  She also hadn’t planned for the café that she worked in to close down. That’s what happened, just after she started school. Just after she signed the one-year lease on her bedsit.

  She was sure Rufus and Scarlett had taken pity on her, though they still denied it. Scarlett claimed she’d been desperate to start up the dog-walking business. Perfect timing, et cetera, et cetera.

  What had been perfect timing, Shannon thought, was Rufus and Scarlett meeting in the first place. If they hadn’t, she’d probably be flipping burgers at McDonalds to pay her rent.

  ‘You’ve got to meet her,’ Rufus had said after one of their first dates.

  Yeah, right, Shannon thought, steeling herself for the usual routine. That’ll be fun.

  His girlfriends weren’t horrible or anything. Most were nice and a few were cool. She didn’t even mind so much that he dropped off the face of the earth when he started seeing someone. It was just that when it ended in tears (his), she’d have to pick up the pieces. Again.

  But it was different with Scarlett.

  Shannon didn’t have to take any late-night phone calls to convince Rufus that Scarlett’s phone probably hadn’t been stolen; she was just busy and would definitely ring back. No analysis of what she meant by ‘I’ll see you later’… she meant she’d see him later. And no warnings not to go too fast. Scarlett actually liked Rufus’s commitment.

  Plus, she was an awesome woman.

  So instead of losing her best mate, Shannon gained another one. Queue the Chees-O-Meter. It was true, though. And she’d never admit it to Rufus, but in some ways she was closer to Scarlett. He might have known her since primary school, but she and Scarlett were in the sisterhood, they loved each other and they ran their business together. Besticles before testicles! Though she’d never say that to Rufus, either.

  Gathering up the dogs’ leads again, and the contents of her handbag, Shannon steered them towards the big grassy area where Fifi and Clive liked to run.

  That’s what she told herself: she was going where the dogs liked to run. Nothing to do with the possibility that Mr Darcy might be there. That would be a bonus. After the welfare of her clients.

  She fluffed her deep red hair and scanned the field. Dogs liked routine, so you could generally set your watch by a dog walker’s route. She spotted a fuzzy form in the distance. It might be him. Or it might be a bald OAP leaning on a Zimmer frame.

  Sneaking her thick-framed black glasses from her bag, she hunched into her biker jacket and held them to her eyes. It was him! She kept her gaze trained on the figure as she slid them off again.

  She was still cross with Scarlett for talking her into those specs. Only cool people could get away with NHS frames, not people like her. And they weren’t cheap, either, so she couldn’t justify replacing them.

  ‘Fifi, go play with that greyhound!’ She unclipped Fifi’s lead. ‘Go on, girl. You too, Clive. Doesn’t he look like fun?’

  The dogs sneered. We know what you’re trying to do. That’s his dog, isn’t it? Pretty pathetic. They trotted off, away from the greyhound, wafting judgment as they went.

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ Shannon called after them. ‘What about you?’ She scratched Sampson’s ear, sending him into paroxysms of bliss and drool. ‘I don’t suppose you’re up for running with a greyhound?’

  Sampson sat heavily on her foot. ‘Didn’t think so.’

  She wasn’t so much Sampson’s dog walker as his mode of transport. Once he decided he was tired there was no moving him. She might cajole him to the other side of the field, but then it would be a long walk home, especially if she had to carry him. Which she often did.

  People usually figured she was fit when they heard she was a dog walker, but she didn’t walk nearly as much as they thought she did. Especially not with bowlegged asthmatic bulldogs like Sampson.

  Still watching the blurry form across the field, she rang Scarlett. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked when Scarlett picked up. ‘You sounded funny last night.’

  ‘We didn’t talk last night.’

  ‘Your texts. There was a tone.’

  ‘You’re interpreting my texts now?’ Scarlett laughed. ‘Nothing’s wrong. What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m in the park with Sampson and the poodles. They really are judgmental toffs, you know.’

  ‘Mmm hmm, just like their owners,’ Scarlett said. ‘When I rang them about their direct debit the husband spent an entire conversation referring to himself in the third person, like the Queen.’

  Shannon was glad that Scarlett handled all of the admin. Play to your strengths, her father had always said. Shannon’s strengths didn’t stretch to people. Nearly every week when they had their staff meeting – that’s what they called the walk in the park when they talked about their business – Scarlett reminded Shannon that she was welcome to take on some client management, of the two-legged sort, whenever she wanted. Nearly every week Shannon cringed, thanked her and declined.

  ‘Sampson pissed on a lady’s pram,’ Shannon said.

  ‘That must’ve gone over well. Did the lady see?’

  ‘Of course. It happened right in front of her. With the baby in the pram. I offered my water to clean it off.’

  ‘That doesn’t really make up for pissing on her child, though, does it?’

  ‘That’s what she said.’ She squinted across the grass at the figure who, she hoped, wasn’t really a bald OAP with a Zimmer frame. ‘I think Mr Darcy’s here.’

  She didn’t need to explain who she meant. Mr Darcy was a permanent, if abstract, character in her life.

  ‘Do you have a good dress on?’

  ‘Yes, Mum, and clean knickers, too.’

  She wore her usual cool weather uniform – a floral dress with clashing cardigan, biker jacket, boots and a deep purple hand-knitted scarf that she wound round her neck till she nearly suffocated. In winter she added woolly tights that clashed with her cardigan and her dress, or men’s long johns. In summer she ditched the scarf and tights and traded her boots in for Converse high-tops. Otherwise her look was the same every day.

  ‘Have you talked to him?’

  Shannon glanced again to where Mr Darcy stood, unaware that he was about to become the object of a stranger’s pervy fantasy.

  ‘Of course. He ran straight over when he saw me. With three dozen long-stem roses. That man worships me,’ she said, staring at the man who didn’t know she existed. She wasn’t sure if it was possible to be in love with someone she’d never met. Superfans of popstars seemed to do it all the time.
Mr Darcy wasn’t a popstar – as far as she could tell – but she was definitely a superfan. ‘It’s hard to get a word in with him constantly telling me how much he loves me,’ she told Scarlett. ‘I had to drag him behind the holly hedge and promise all kinds of things just to shut him up. We’ve been at it like bonobos since lunchtime. He’s an absolute animal.’

  ‘In other words, you still haven’t talked to him. Maybe today’s the day? Do it when you get off the phone.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Shannon said. ‘Not today, no.’

  Not today, not yesterday, or the day, or the week or month before that. The poodles were right. She was pathetic. How many thirty-two year olds couldn’t manage to say hello to someone, even with such an obvious conversation starter sniffing around their feet? Hi, you’re a dog-walker, too? It should be easy. It would be, if she wasn’t a total coward.

  If nothing else, then she could find out his real name. But her pale, thin face bloomed with puce blotches just thinking about speaking to him. Which wasn’t pretty. If she got too close, poor Mr Darcy would probably fear catching scarlet fever off her.

  For someone so hopelessly infatuated with a stranger, she was pragmatic. Lots of people, she reasoned, never met the object of their desire. That didn’t mean he couldn’t still be the highlight of her day. Sometimes they walked their dogs past each other. Then Shannon snatched a glimpse, adding another tiny detail to her fantasy, before looking away. The incredible green eyes with dark rings around the irises. Always the stubble on his razor-sharp jaw that flashed bits of blond if the sun caught it just right. Dark pink kissable lips and just-long-enough auburn hair. Even when they didn’t pass, sneaking a glance through her glasses at his fit, jeans-clad form in the distance made her happy.

  She’d secretly stared at him so often through her dorky glasses that she’d sketched him from memory. On the psycho scale, that was probably up there. She was too embarrassed to ask Scarlett.

  Chapter 3

  ‘But I’m not unhappy,’ Scarlett objected as Gemma poured her more green tea. Her sister couldn’t resist being righteous about drinks when they went for dim sum together. As if that made up for being a total glutton when she ate most of the dumplings.

  She knew she shouldn’t have said anything about Rufus. Her frustration about the other night had just sort of slipped out. And she hadn’t even mentioned the sexual hiatus.

  She couldn’t bring herself to talk about that. What was wrong with her, that she couldn’t entice the man she’d married into bed? It made her feel useless enough just to think about, let alone say out loud. Besides, it wasn’t like there was anything Gemma could do to help her. She tried very hard not to imagine her sister standing over their bed shouting instructions.

  Hopefully, Gemma didn’t guess what she was thinking. ‘Things are okay, Gemm.’

  ‘But you would tell me if something was really wrong, right?’ Gemma asked. ‘I don’t want you to be unhappy. I love you like a sister.’

  ‘Good thing, since you are my sister.’

  ‘All the more reason, honeypots,’ Gemma said, absently sticking her fingers into her springy blond-tipped curls.

  Gemma’s kinky hair, gorgeous caramel complexion and mile-long legs came from her Scottish-Caribbean mum, not their dad. And Scarlett’s own mum couldn’t be more Caucasian, so her own paper-pale skin, blonde hair and blue eyes shouldn’t have surprised anyone. The only feature Scarlett shared with her half-sister, and you had to really be paying attention to notice it, were their father’s freckles across both their noses.

  ‘Maybe you’ve got the seven-year-itch early,’ Gemma continued, making a grab for the last prawn dumpling. ‘Do you feel itchy?’ She scratched her armpit with a chopstick to demonstrate.

  ‘Charming. No, I’m not itchy. Everything is fine. We’re both just busy with work, and we have been together for almost five years. Of course there’ll be things that get on our nerves by now. Probably the same things that bug you about Jacob. Dirty pants on the floor, not saying when we’re low on milk. Just the usual domestics. It’s unrealistic to expect mad passion all the time.’

  Gemma looked up sharply. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing! But when the rose-tinted glasses come off, we see each other’s natural human flaws. That’s all I mean. And don’t play dumb. I know for a fact that Jacob drives you nuts sometimes.’

  ‘What?! You mean my husband, the light o’ my life?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘I wanted to push his face into the bin the other day when the bag broke from overfilling, again,’ she muttered. ‘I’m not proud of that.’

  ‘Understandable, though.’

  ‘Right, as long as you’re still making time for each other, you know, romantically. How long did you say it’s been?’ she innocently asked.

  ‘I didn’t, Gemm.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘A month,’ Scarlett lied. ‘Let’s get the bill. You know I hate missing the film trailers.’

  ‘Puhlease. You just want time for the pick ’n’ mix.’

  Gemma let the discussion go, but Scarlett knew she’d be on the alert now.

  Rufus was still up when she got home from the film. The TV flickered with the sound turned down. He had a dog’s chin on each thigh. Their eyes opened when she came in, but they didn’t move. Traitors.

  ‘They’re not supposed to be on the sofa,’ Scarlett reminded him. ‘You know, it doesn’t look good when a trainer’s dogs misbehave.’

  ‘Luckily the dog police haven’t come round to check up on us.’ He shifted his legs. ‘Fred, Ginger, you heard Scarlett. Off the sofa.’

  If they were teenagers, they’d have rolled their eyes. Grudgingly they jumped down and trotted toward Scarlett to beg some more attention.

  ‘Come join me, darlin’.’ Rufus opened his arms. ‘There’s a terrible film on. The guy with the hat is an alien. So is his talking cat.’

  She threw herself on top of him so they could stretch out together along their sofa.

  ‘Isn’t this nice?’ he said. ‘Room for two.’

  He just loved rubbing that in.

  ‘Still not a patch on my choice, though,’ she said.

  They could have had the perfect sofa – something sleek and trendy in a gorgeous colour like powder blue or stone – if she hadn’t broken newly-wed Rule Number One: never insult his mother.

  ‘This one’s nice,’ Rufus had said in the showroom. He threw himself on a long overstuffed maroon monstrosity. ‘Very comfy.’

  Those velour bulbous arms looked familiar.

  ‘Mum and Dad’s is great for napping,’ he said.

  ‘Hmm.’

  Just the design statement she was going for – her in-laws’ dated living room. They’d actually paid to ship their frumpy sofa to their house in Tenerife, where it blended into the vibrant Spanish island about as well as they did. ‘I was thinking of something like this.’ She ran her hand over the back of a 1950s Mad Men-style sofa with delicate wooden legs, high narrow arms and buttons on the seats. She could practically taste the martinis they’d drink on that sofa.

  ‘It doesn’t look comfortable,’ he said.

  ‘Try it and see.’

  Rufus sat. ‘I feel like I’m about to be called into the headmaster’s office. It’s too straight up and down.’

  ‘But it’s gorgeous.’

  ‘We’re not going to sit with our eyes, though, are we? What’s wrong with this one?’ Stubbornly, he went back to the overstuffed nightmare.

  ‘It’s so tacky! Rufus, we’ve got better taste than that.’

  ‘It’s like the one at Mum’s house.’

  ‘Proves my point.’

  ‘So my mum is tacky?’

  ‘Well, if the sofa fits…’

  She shouldn’t have said it, but she really didn’t want to have to live with that sofa for the next decade.

  When he crossed his arms she saw her dream of a cocktail-worthy living room slipping away. Possibl
y along with their marriage, if she wasn’t careful. The mother comment was a step too far.

  ‘I guess we want a more neutral colour anyway, with the dogs,’ she conceded. ‘Can we at least agree on that, and find something we can both live with?’

  Three years later, she was living with it, though only by explaining to anyone who came to the house that Rufus picked it out.

  It was comfortable, she had to admit. Especially when they were on it together like this. As Rufus’s arms tightened around her, he squeezed away the niggling feeling she’d had since talking to Gemma.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he whispered into her hair. ‘Let’s go out tomorrow night in London. On a proper date. We haven’t done that in a while.’

  That was exactly what they needed. The niggling feeling crept a bit further into the corner. A candlelit dinner, maybe, or the theatre or a gig where they’d dance into the wee hours like they used to do. Her mind raced to her wardrobe. She had a nearly-new dress that she could wear with her highest heels. Did she have time for a haircut? Maybe she could squeeze one in between her afternoon puppy classes.

  She glanced down at her old skinny jeans and slightly pilled jumper.

  Working with the dogs was a double-edged sword. They only cared that she had treats somewhere about her person, and it didn’t make sense to wear nice clothes when she spent so much of her time on the ground. So she saved a fortune, but usually looked like a slob.

  ‘Let me plan something,’ Rufus said. ‘You’ll be busy with your classes. I can look something up.’

  ‘You mean while you’re goofing off at work?’

  ‘Mmm hmm. I’ll try to squeeze it in between shopping on eBay and my phone Scrabble tournament,’ he said.

  ‘At least one of us works for a living.’

  ‘You? You play with dogs all day.’

  She laughed against the soft cotton of his shirt. She knew he was incredibly proud of the business she’d built up from scratch. So was she.

  She wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t for her mum. Definitely not that soon after graduating anyway. She figured she’d work for someone else first; otherwise, who’d trust her with their dogs?