Lydia
Lydia
Lydia felt totally responsible for Pauline’s dog since, even if she hadn’t actually killed its owner with the power of thought, she had been the person in charge when her death had occurred. Had she been somehow culpable?
The council had sent her an online Health and Safety training module to complete before she could start the job. She’d tried to concentrate on the litany of mundane questions, regarding fire exits, food allergies, slippery floors, and wheelchair ramps, but Antiques Roadshow had been playing in the background, and she’d become distracted by trying to work out if the presenter, that lovely Fiona Bruce, had had Botox and fillers, or if she was just naturally blessed.
Lydia had taken her eye off the training module for a few minutes to check Wikipedia. Fiona was, apparently, fifty-nine. Six years older than Lydia, despite looking significantly younger. During her wave of resulting despondency, had she accidentally skipped over a section on ensuring that the ceiling of your venue was structurally sound?
The paramedics, who’d loaded Pauline into the ambulance with a blanket pulled over her head, had assured Lydia that the ceiling collapse hadn’t been the cause of Pauline’s death. But Lydia couldn’t shake the overwhelming guilt. So she’d taken Pauline’s poor orphaned dog home with her, just for the time being.
···
“What on earth is that ugly looking dog doing here?” said Jeremy as he shrugged off his navy cashmere overcoat and loosened his tie. He sank into his favorite leather armchair, in the corner of the open-plan kitchen that had once thrummed with activity, but now felt far too large for just the two of them, their voices echoing off the marble worktops.
“Her owner’s just died,” replied Lydia, feeling a twinge of guilt again. “One of the old ladies at the social club I’m running. I thought we could look after her for a while.”
“Doesn’t she have any friends or family who could take her on?” said Jeremy, frowning at the dog, as if she had engineered the situation herself just to irritate him.
“Not according to her neighbors,” said Lydia. Pauline’s neighbors hadn’t seemed much affected by the news of her death. In fact, Lydia was pretty sure one of them had even smirked a little. Maybe Lydia hadn’t been the only one to find herself at the sharp end of Pauline’s tongue.
“Well, she can’t stay long,” said Jeremy, brushing his wavy brown hair, streaked with silver, back off his face. Jeremy was inordinately proud of his still-full head of hair, and looked down on the balding pates of lesser middle-aged men, both metaphorically and—on account of being a couple of inches taller than six foot—often literally.
“The last thing we need, now that the girls have left home, is the responsibility of a dog. Just when we’re able to travel anywhere at the drop of a hat,” he said.
“But we don’t travel anywhere, Jeremy. Do we?” said Lydia. “At the drop of a hat or not.”
“But we could ,” said Jeremy. “If we wanted to. But not if we have a dog. Besides, even if I wanted a dog, I wouldn’t want that one.”
“What’s wrong with her?” said Lydia, hoping the dog wouldn’t answer her question by farting, which she seemed to do alarmingly frequently.
“What’s right with her?” snorted Jeremy. “She’s too old, totally unkempt, and nervy.”
“Of course she’s nervy,” said Lydia, trying to shake the thought that Jeremy had just described her. No wonder she felt such an affinity with the dog. “You keep frowning at her.”
“She’s not going to live very long, which I suppose is a bonus. But she’ll cost an arm and a leg in vet’s bills,” said Jeremy, now frowning at them both. Lydia decided not to tell Jeremy about the small fortune she’d already spent at the incredibly chic pet boutique in Brook Green on a dog bed, lead, bowls, and various chews and toys.
“If I were to choose a dog, which I wouldn’t, it would be something well bred. Sleek and intelligent. A black Labrador, maybe. Although they tend to be a bit greedy and run too fat.” Was it her imagination, or had he just flicked his eyes toward her tummy when he’d said that? Lydia put the packet of crisps she’d been about to open in the bin. “What breed is she, in any case?”
“A bichon frise,” said Lydia. This wasn’t true, but Lydia suspected a posh-sounding breed would go down much better with Jeremy than the more accurate “mongrel of indeterminate parentage.” Labels, in Jeremy’s world, were important.
“Well, whatever she is, she’s not staying here,” said Jeremy. His phone pinged, and he stared at the screen, then said, “I’ve got to make a call. I’ll be in my study.”
“He’s been doing that a lot recently. Taking phone calls in the evenings and at weekends, in private,” said Lydia to the dog, once she’d heard the familiar click of Jeremy’s study door closing. She opened the kitchen bin and retrieved the packet of crisps she’d thrown away, brushing the potato peelings and coffee grounds off it. Needs must.
“And did you notice that the only time he’s smiled since he came back from the office was when he looked at that text message? Should I be worried? Or am I just jealous, because nobody ever calls to speak to me?” she said, through a mouthful of salt-and-vinegar crisp.
The dog didn’t reply, obviously, but she did stare at Lydia intently, her head on one side, as if she were considering her question carefully.
“He didn’t even ask your name, did he?” said Lydia. “Which is a shame, as it’s possibly the only thing about you that he’d approve of.”
Lydia really didn’t want to send her new confidante away. For a start, finding a good home for her was going to be difficult, for all the reasons Jeremy had cruelly, but accurately, outlined. And, even for such a short time, Lydia had rather enjoyed having her around. She’d found coping with an empty nest, now the girls were both at the university, even harder than she’d expected. She’d been rattling around her large, lonely house since term started, totally surplus to requirements. At least now when she talked out loud, she didn’t feel quite so unhinged.
Lydia wasn’t sure exactly when she’d lost herself. Before she’d married Jeremy, she’d been Lydia Armstrong, an in-demand food stylist. She’d spent her days arranging the perfect selection of cornflakes for the final money shot of a TV commercial, as the milk was poured into the bowl from a white ceramic jug. Or creating the most delicious-looking slice of pizza, stringy cheese dripping from its sides as it was lifted into shot, surrounded by a photogenic family of four with improbably white smiles. She’d been independent, confident, attractive.
Then she’d given up her surname. Followed, when the girls arrived, by her job. And she’d even stopped being referred to as Lydia much of the time. She was “Mummy” or “Darling” or “Mrs. Roberts.” Sometimes she lost any form of name at all, and became just an adjunct: “Sophia’s Mum,” or “Jeremy’s Plus-One.” When she pictured scenes from the past, she felt like the Lydia she was looking at was a completely different person. She couldn’t remember what it felt like to be her.
At least a dog would make her feel needed again. Perhaps, once he’d got to know her better, Jeremy would change his mind? Maybe, for the time being, Lydia could find someone to share responsibility for her care. That way, she could look after her just a couple of days a week to start off with. After all, Jeremy hadn’t explicitly ruled out that scenario, had he?
The social club was due to meet again tomorrow. If anyone had the courage to turn up again, she could ask if they might be willing to help out.