Chapter 24
EVIE
“Well, that nasty mange has cleared up, cutie. You’ll be curled up next to your forever love in no time.”
“You think there’s hope for me?” I say, leaning over the fence. With my vacation time over, I’ve worked twelve-hour shifts this week, and now I’m at Nora’s. And so is Yara. Yay!
“Don’t creep up on me,” she splutters, then she giggles as the terrier she’s been treating leaps forward and licks her nose. “Ew, stop that, Barney!”
I smile at the sight of her being overwhelmed by a tiny bundle of four-legged gratitude. Maybe there really isn’t anything in the world that equals the love of a dog.
“You know what Nora would say.”
“You know where ’er tongue ’as been?” Yara answers in some imitation of Nora’s accent as she pushes the grateful West Highland white terrier mix away from her face. “The old ones are always the best. You done with your list?”
“Like a boss.” There’s been no letup from Nora’s these past weeks, not that I mind. Though now that I’m back at work, I’m seriously coming to miss my luxury spa days. “Old Bess’s ears are looking much less sore, so I’d say the drops worked, and I’ve taken the cone of shame from the new Great Dane cross horse.”
“Has he got a name yet?”
“Nora’s calling him Scooby. No Doo ,” I add. “Oh, and that rash on the springer spaniel wasn’t ringworm but beetroot.”
“Beetroot?” Yara repeats, struggling to her feet. “Yeah, yeah, I’d love me, too, if I’d made my skin look brand new,” she laughs, patting the still-bouncy terrier.
“From Nora’s sandwich, apparently.”
“Really?” She glances briefly my way as we gather the tricks of our trade together.
“That’s what it looks like to me. I remembered how that day she was eating a sandwich, and it washed off.” I wave my hands in a kind of ta-daa! “You know her eyesight isn’t the greatest.”
Yara stretches her head to the side, as though trying to work out a kink in her neck. “Think we need to broach the subject of her driving license with her?”
Now it’s my turn to pull a face. “I think our duty of care in this instance—”
“—is not to the old dear who’d tear us a new one at the first sign of interference?”
“That’s about the sum of it.” Leaning over the gate, I slide the bolt open as Yara administers the last of her treatment—a liver treat—to her patient. “You’ve just got to know how to handle her.”
“I defer to you, oh knowledgeable one, but I would just like to point out that she has just taken the Dis Astra on a trip to the bakery,” she says, using the nickname we’ve given her ancient Astra station wagon.
“Let’s add that to the list of shit to worry about later.”
“Speaking of shit, did you get yours back yet?”
I smile at her back as she closes the gate. Not only does Yara not speak Pulse Tok, but she clearly doesn’t read that stupid column. But neither would I if I weren’t part of their current obsession.
“Not yet.” Maybe I should get Oliver’s lawyers to intervene here too. My wand would come in handy.
“Is Bitchell still giving you shit?”
“Eh. Not me. He turned up at Riley’s again. Lori was not pleased.”
“Boo-fucking-hoo.” She drags a finger down her cheek to mimic tears, her mouth turning down at the edges. “She’s completely the wrong person to ask to pass on a punch in the face.”
“Especially on my behalf.”
“You haven’t seen him since ...”
“Since the wedding that wasn’t?” I shake my head. “And I hope to keep it that way, especially as he seems to be suffering from a case of main-character syndrome.”
“He’s what?” Her expression twists.
“He seems to think he’s entitled to sympathy, according to an online article last week.”
“ Women everywhere are cheering for you ,” Una Smith had said. To use a Yara phrase, instead, she’s stitched me up.
“Sympathy!” Yara explodes. “That twat is this close to being strung up by a group of women in pink saris!” She holds her index finger and thumb half an inch apart.
“I was tempted.”
“Say the word, and I’ll put out the call. Because that Pulse video thingy is like an internet tutorial on how to get punched in the face by a stranger.”
“He was chased out of Brick Lane Market by women throwing fruit.”
“Excellent! Well done, the sisterhood! But that’s exactly what I mean—why the hell is he prolonging this? What’s he up to?”
Probably playing Oliver’s games. Or is Oliver playing Mitch’s games? It’s like the chicken and the egg—it’s hard to tell where the distaste and hate stem from. Well, there’s Lucy, my brain unhelpfully supplies. Lucy must be some girl to get a cool customer like Oliver to react this way.
“Who knows what that man thinks. And frankly, who cares? I should be thanking Jen for fucking him—oh, and they’re still seeing each other, apparently.” Or was that another A Little Bird edition he thought might stir me to action? Asshole.
“Jen.” Yara’s mouth pinches. “Didn’t anyone teach her ‘hos before bros’? ‘Breasties before testes’?”
“She can have him and his testes with my blessing. Without her lack of morals, I would’ve married a stranger. He never once mentioned he had money, that he owned that whole building he lived in.”
“That massive warehouse in Shoreditch? I thought he just rented his place there?”
“That’s what he said. But it’s his.”
“Wow, he must be minted.”
“A fact he forgot to mention. And here’s another thing that slipped his memory: he was on a dating show before we met.”
“Like The Bachelor ?” Yara retches for effect.
“Worse. It was hot singles in a huge house on a tropical island, strutting around wearing nothing but shorts and bikinis for a drama-filled fuck fest.” I looked it up on YouTube and almost didn’t believe it was him. He was the posh boy of the group—he had an accent like Oliver’s!
I mean, who was that man?
The thought feels like a finger poking me in the middle of my forehead. Rich, posh, and manipulating, the pair could be twins. I mean, I’m stuck with Oliver, but at least he hasn’t hidden his bullshit.
“It would explain the continued media interest,” Yara says.
“Yeah.” I blow out an apathetic breath. “I thought once the Pulse Tok died down, that would be it. But it must be a slow news month in London if they’re chasing him as some kind of minor celebrity.”
Just another thing he must’ve forgotten to mention, along with his wealth, the scope of his business, and his tendency to dip his dick in other women.
“I’ve never heard of him. Well, not before you.”
“The show ran like, a decade ago.”
“So a Z-grade celebrity that no one gives a stuff about.”
“Unless they cheated on their fiancée and hit the viral algorithm on Pulse Tok.”
“It wasn’t his cheating that made the thing go viral. It was the way you handed him his arse at the altar.”
“Sometimes I wish I’d just walked away when I got those texts.”
“Ah, babe.” She gives me a one-armed hug. “Fuck that man. You’ll find someone else.”
I guess now would be the ideal opportunity to let her in on my big news. My big, fat, fabricated relationship.
“That’s the thing. I kind of have.” Yara, forgive me for making you part of the plot , but I can’t keep letting her think I’m living in squalor.
“So soon?” She doesn’t say you idiot , but her face does.
“Even sooner. I climbed into his car in my wedding dress, kind of fleeing the scene.”
Her eyes fly wide. “No way!”
“I know. He didn’t even kick me out.”
She starts to laugh, really laugh. But I don’t mind.
“Evie, you so should’ve made your own Pulse Tok.”
“Sure, that’s exactly where my mind was at when I’d just escaped marrying a serial cheater.” The dogs in the kennels suddenly begin to bark. “Now look, your donkey braying has set the dogs off.”
“Sorry,” she says, pressing her hand to her mouth, completely uncontrite. But her laughter is infectious. “In your wedding dress? You must’ve looked like a total mental case.”
“I think the phrase you’re looking for is damsel in distress .”
“Babes, you showed me the video. The aesthetic wasn’t distress , it was more murderous maniac .”
“Thanks,” I mutter with a slow shake of my head.
“Not that he didn’t deserve it. But this guy, he must be one of the good ones. Men these days are allergic to women in white dresses, you know.”
I bite my tongue. Good isn’t a word I’d use to describe Oliver, unless we’re talking about his bedroom skills. Or his proficiency at making me want to strangle him.
“It’s not like I was out in the street looking for a stand-in groom.”
“Because you’ve been there, done that, and worn the lacy dress. You must’ve looked like a complete bunny boiler.”
“Remind me why we’re friends again?”
“We’re better than friends. We’re mates. We keep it real, but honestly, that whole story is just ridic.”
“That’s me,” I murmur, watching as Yara pats the pockets of her scrubs like she’s looking for something. “Ridiculous. Or at least my life is.”
“So, what’s he called?” she asks, turning to rummage in the bag behind her. “This Romeo rescuer of yours.”
“Romeo.” My shoulders move with a snort.
“No way!” She swings around, her eyes as wide as dinner plates. “You know they wind up dead at the end though, right?”
Hmm. One of us might.
“His name is Oliver.” Saying his name shouldn’t cause me that tiny bubble of pleasure. The man is no Romeo.
“Speak of the devil . . .”
My heart goes ba-dum at the sudden sound of Oliver’s smooth, deep tone. I whip around to find his playful eyes on mine. But there’s an intensity there, too, a facet of him I’m coming to recognize. “What are you doing here? I know I mentioned your name, but I didn’t say it three times.”
“I think that’s Beetlejuice,” Yara offers with a slightly dazzled look.
“He’s got the suit. What shade is this?” I add in a whisper. “Could it be morally gray?” My lady parts are all aflutter as I reach out to rub the lapel of a (charcoal-colored) suit that hugs him in all the right places. It has the finest pinstripes and a matching vest. His shirt is a brilliant white, his tie dark. He even has a pocket square.
Oliver Deubel, you GQ -worthy thirst trap, you.
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” he replies, bending to press a kiss to my cheek. Oh, so we’re playing it this way, still.
“What are you doing here?”
“Checking on my bunny boiler, apparently.” He leans around me, offering his hand to Yara. “I’m Oliver. Thankfully, I don’t own any pets.”
“You’re harboring one,” I mutter as Bo suddenly appears, sticking his nose in Oliver’s crotch at the first opportunity available.
“Yes, he does seem to like me,” he says, deftly sliding him away.
“A little too much.” I begin to giggle, but that is not a tale I’m about to tell. “Sorry.” I give myself a little shake. “Oliver, this is Yara, my friend.”
“Hello.” Yara’s voice is suddenly very girly. “It’s nice to meet you, Oliver. Evie was just talking about you.”
“Was she?” He slides me a look that’s hard to decipher.
“She was just telling me how you met.”
“Really?”
“And I was just saying that not many men would’ve seen beyond the wedding dress.”
“And I was just telling her—”
“That I’m not ‘many men’?” He stares lovingly at me, but for the beginnings of a smirk lurking at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re a one-off.” Not a compliment.
“Are you also a vet, Yara?” He turns a pleasantly bland expression her way.
“Yeah,” I answer for her. “She has all the good drugs,” I add, because if he asks me later about this conversation, I’ll blame her illicit drug usage. “Again, what are you doing here?” I slip my hands into the back pockets of my jeans, suddenly not sure what I should do with them. I shouldn’t be touching his suit up, and given what I just told Yara, I probably shouldn’t wrap them around his throat either.
“I was hoping to whisk you away, but you weren’t answering your phone.”
“Oh.” I pivot, then swivel back. “I put it down somewhere. The question is, where?”
“She does this at least five times a day.” Yara directs this Oliver’s way.
“That’s not true.”
“I know,” Oliver replies over the top of my head. “Her glasses, too, I’ve noticed.”
“No, she definitely loses her glasses more.”
“I do not,” I protest. “I’ve been pretty good with them lately. I’ve lost them, like, once?” I look to Oliver for confirmation, catching the end of a satisfied-looking smile. It’s weird that he thinks he can hide it by rubbing a finger across his mouth. “Okay, maybe twice.”
“Something like that.”
“I have them right here,” I retort, reaching into my cardigan pocket.
“Then who do these belong to?” Yara bends to her bag again and pulls out a pair of glasses identical to the ones in my hand. “You left them on the table after we met for coffee last week.”
“Weird.” I reach for them, instantly knowing they’re mine, though I put them on, just in case. The prescription feels the same—the same as the ones I’ve been wearing on and off all day.
“Do you have two pairs the same?” Yara asks, unworried by my confusion.
“No. Yes. Well, I bought two pairs because they had twenty percent off the second pair. It wasn’t much of a bargain when you calculate how I had them only a week.”
“Sounds about right.” Yara grins.
“Strange.” I balance the new or spare pair on the fence post, when Oliver reaches for them, slipping them behind his pocket square.
“I’ll just hold onto these for you.”
“Whatever,” I mutter, unamused.
“Right, well, I suppose I’d better get myself to the clinic,” Yara says, bending to scoop up her bag. “I have a meeting to look forward to with the advocates of a cocker spaniel I operated on yesterday.”
My expression turns sympathetic. The downside of this job is handling the unhappy cases. “Things didn’t go well?”
“Eh.” Yara shrugs, then slides her bag higher up her shoulder. “Foreign-body obstruction. The surgery was fine. The issue is that the foreign body turned out to be a pair of silky knickers.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time. For a dog, everything is edible until proved otherwise,” I say, mostly for Oliver’s benefit.
“Yes, so I’ve heard.”
I slant him a look that says So you’ve experienced .
“But it is the first time I’ve been asked to produce the foreign body,” Yara adds.
I pull a face. “Ew.”
“Good thing Rachel managed to pull them before they were sent for incineration.”
“Double ew.”
“That’s what she gets for giggling over other people’s problems,” Yara says airily, no doubt a reference to getting caught watching a certain Pulse Tok video.
I shake my head and smile, touched by her support.
“The advocate, also known as the pet owner,” she clarifies for Oliver, “asked me to describe them over the phone, and she did not sound very impressed when I did. ‘Red!’” Yara enunciates in an accent much posher than her own. “‘I do not own red undergarments!’ Anyway, they’ve been bagged for this afternoon’s appointment, and I have a very nasty feeling I’m only there as witness to her confronting him.”
“I’d clear all sharp instruments from the room if I were you.”
I feel the sudden weight of Oliver’s hand on my shoulder. “Because there are better ways to exact revenge.”
My face heats immediately, and Yara looks thrilled.
“It won’t be much fun,” I say, hurrying on.
“Maybe not for him, but I think I might enjoy it.” Her fingers fold around the strap of her bag. “Nice to meet you, Oliver.”
“And you. I’m sure our paths will cross again.” Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he wraps his arm around my shoulder, absently pressing his lips to my hair. I rest the back of my head against his chest, angling it to smile at him.
Anyone looking at us would probably mistake this for adoration. And I guess I’m getting pretty good at pretending, because even my heart feels like joining in.