Chapter Twelve
‘When I said you should keep the ball in your court, I didn’t mean you should lose the sodding ball, Jelly.’
I cringe at Rhys’s reprimand as I stand up from the plastic chair in the small waiting area of the printer’s.
My boxes of posters and flyers have been placed on the counter for me to pick up.
‘I didn’t mean to lose his number.’ I lift my shoulder to hold my phone in place so I can grab the cardboard tube from the counter and still chat to my friend.
‘I’ve looked everywhere for it, but it’s gone.
I must have dropped it in the back of the taxi.
’ Kit’s number is gone, the business card he gave me nowhere to be found.
I couldn’t find it when I woke yesterday, and believe me, I’ve looked.
I emptied that bag and checked every nook and cranny, every zipped-up compartment, checking for any gaps in the lining that it may have fallen through.
I checked my purse, in case I tucked it into one of the slots, even though I know I didn’t, but the card – and Kit’s number – is nowhere to be found and I have no way of contacting him without it.
I’m annoyed and frustrated and gutted, because I really felt something that night.
‘It can’t be fate then, can it?’
‘I guess not.’ I slip the cardboard tube under my arm. ‘Anyway, I need to go. I’m picking up the New Year’s Eve posters for work. Call me later, yeah? Love you.’
‘Don’t get soppy on me, Jelly.’
‘You know you love me too, so just say it.’
Rhys snorts. ‘I barely tolerate you, mate.’
‘Come on, admit it. You’re besotted with me.’
Rhys gasps. ‘You’re right. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before now.
I am so besotted with you. I am head-over-heels.
I love you to the moon and back. You are my everything.
My world. You complete me. We are the epitome of friends to lovers, and our grandchildren will beg us to tell the story of our love. ’
I hitch the cardboard tube up as it starts to slip. ‘You didn’t mean a word of that, did you?’
‘Of course not, you melon.’
The line goes dead and I giggle to myself as I shove my phone in the pocket of my shirt before hefting the box of flyers up from the counter.
I thank the sales assistant and head out of the shop, stepping down carefully over the small step at the threshold.
It isn’t easy navigating a hefty box and an unwieldy tube, but my car is parked just down the street.
I’m two cars away when a bloke approaches with four pups of various sizes and temperaments tethered to a spaghetti of leads.
One of the dogs – the smallest – bounces on his stubby legs as he yaps while two of the larger dogs pull their leads taut in their eagerness to get to wherever they’re going.
The fourth dog darts out of the pack as it passes and although I do my best to stumble out of the way, the dogwalker is yanked in my direction, along with his four-legged friends, and I end up tangled in the leads.
All four dogs are now barking and, panicked, I back away.
Which doesn’t work out as my knees are trussed up and I end up on my arse with an upended box spilling flyers onto the pavement beside me.
‘Flipping hell!’ The owner yanks at the barking dogs, but my knees are still entangled with the leads and I feel my pants start to slide down from my hips. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’
‘Stop! Please.’ I hold a hand up, the other clinging onto the waistband of my combats because this situation is bad enough without me adding a bit of knicker-flashing to the chaos.
The dogs’ owner thankfully follows my plea and stops yanking at the leads and I manage to free myself from their clutches.
‘I really am sorry.’ The owner crouches down next to me and transfers the handles of the leads into one hand so he can right the upended box with the other.
‘Let me help you with these.’ He starts to gather up the spilled flyers, which have scattered along the pavement in the breeze.
The largest of the dogs, a German shepherd with a very loud bark, takes advantage of his owner’s misdirected concentration and makes a run for it, its lead slipping out of the guy’s hand and dangling onto the ground as the dog bounds away.
‘Donald!’ The owner scrabbles to his feet, the flyers he’d gathered up fluttering back to the pavement like autumn leaves as he pulls at his hair, the leads of the remaining dogs still clutched in the other hand.
‘Donald!’ He looks down at me, face stricken, and back up the street where the German shepherd is sprinting away.
‘Oh no, oh no, oh no. I’m sorry. I need to…
’ And then he’s gone, almost tripping over the other dogs as he lumbers after the runaway hound.
‘For goat’s sake.’ Pain throbs in my bum cheeks as I turn myself over onto my hands and knees, gathering up the flyers and shoving them back in the box.
With the cardboard tube tucked under my arm and the box clutched to my chest, I shuffle to the car, wincing with each step. My arse is definitely bruised.
‘Donald!’
I can still hear the dog’s owner yelling as I dump the box and tube in the boot of my car, so they’ve probably headed into the park just up the road.
I can see the gates from here. I pull down the boot and take careful steps around to the door because my butt is still smarting.
I’m not relishing the thought of sitting in my car but an anguished cry stops me as I’m lowering myself slowly onto the seat.
I straighten back up again and see the fugitive canine on the pavement, almost at human height as he rests his paws on the chest of a startled woman.
Her wide eyes dart around, searching for help as Donald barks at her, his hot doggy breath on her face.
‘Don-ald.’ I keep my tone light as I call out to the dog, not wanting to antagonise him while he’s up close and personal with the woman. ‘Come here, Donald. Who’s a good boy?’
The woman flinches as he barks in her face again. The bark is much more low-key this time, but he doesn’t remove his paws.
‘Come here, Donald.’ I bend at the knees and pat them, but Donald still doesn’t release the poor woman.
I wish I had a bag of treats in my pocket.
Or a big, fat steak, like in the cartoons I watched as a kid.
‘Don-ald. Come here, boy.’ I reach into my pocket, hoping a steak has miraculously appeared in there.
It has not. All that’s in there is an old tissue, my keys, and an empty crisp packet.
‘Hey, Donald. What have I got?’ Closing the car door softly, I take cautious steps towards the pavement as I drag the crisp packet out of my pocket.
I crinkle it between my fingers – and it works!
The woman staggers backwards as Donald pushes himself off her chest, his paws landing softly onto the path.
I’m not actually sure what to do as he trots towards me, because what if he barks in my face? Or worse.
But Donald doesn’t bark. He’s far more interested in the crinkly crisp packet and he shoves his snout into my hand, audibly sniffing out any potential treat. Slowly, while he’s distracted, I bend down and pick up the lead that’s dangling on the ground.
‘What the actual hell?’ The woman thunders towards me, though she stops a safe distance away. ‘That mutt could have taken my face off! I should call the police. Have it put down. Why the hell did you let it roam around, you stupid bitch?’
‘Excuse me?’ I stare at the woman for a moment, lost for words, until I come to my senses and realise what this looks like. ‘This isn’t my dog.’
The woman makes a pfft sound. ‘Of course it isn’t.’
‘No, it really isn’t. I only met it a couple of minutes ago when it sent me on my arse.’ I look down at Donald, who’s still trying to forage the long-gone crisps, and feel a stab of guilt because it wasn’t entirely his fault. There were three other dogs and their owner involved.
‘Whatever.’ The woman leans in towards me and jabs a finger at Donald. ‘Just keep it under control, yeah?’
I’m not sure how I’m supposed to do that when this isn’t my bloody dog, but I let it go. Mainly because the woman is already stalking away, muttering under her breath.
‘Right, you.’ I give a little tug on the lead and start to move away. ‘Let’s find your owner.’
Donald is strangely compliant, trotting beside me as we head into the park, and he even loses interest in the crisp packet after a few steps. We pass a bin, but I push the packet into my pocket, in case I need to deploy the tactic again.
We reach the fountain in the middle of the park, and I decide it’s a good place to stop.
We haven’t spotted the owner or his pack of dogs yet so perhaps it’s best to stay in one spot and let them find us.
Carefully perching on the fountain’s narrow wall, I tentatively reach out and stroke the top of Donald’s head.
He doesn’t rip my fingers off or even bark, so I continue to stroke him, braving a scratch behind his ear.
‘You’re not such a dick, are you?’ I scratch behind his other ear and he tilts his head into the touch.
‘You’re a good boy, really. When you’re not absconding or snarling in women’s faces.
Though maybe she deserved it a little bit.
Did you hear what she called me? Stupid bitch.
The cheek! I rescued her and that’s how she repays me.
’ I switch ears and Donald tilts his head again, clearly basking in the fuss until his head snaps up at the sound of his name being called.
‘Donald! There you are.’ The owner waddles over with the other dogs and drops to his knees in front of Donald, roughly stroking his head. ‘Thank Christ you found him. I don’t know how I’d have explained his absence to his owner.’
‘He’s not yours?’
He stops stroking the dog and shakes his head. ‘I’m just the dogwalker. And I’m usually a good one. This is my first runaway in the three years I’ve been doing this.’ He scratches under Donald’s chin. ‘Where did you find him?’
‘Out on the street.’ I point back in the direction we came from. ‘He was scaring the crap out of some woman. Paws up on her chest and everything.’
The dogwalker cringes. ‘Is she all right?’
I shrug. ‘I hope not. She yelled at me. Unfairly, I think.’
‘Oh. Right.’ He cringes again. ‘Well, I’m sorry. For you getting yelled at. And for knocking you over and sending your flyers into the gutter. I hope they’re not damaged? You deserve a drink.’
‘A big one.’ I stand up and dust the back of my pants off, trying not to wince as I do so. Those cheeks are definitely bruised.
‘Done.’ The owner nods. ‘The biggest drink you can find. It’s on me.
To say sorry. And thank you.’ He ruffles Donald’s ears.
‘I really don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t found him.
So.’ He stands up and I notice he’s clutching the leads so tightly his knuckles are white. ‘That drink. Shall we?’
I close my eyes as it dawns on me what has happened. The tangle of dog leads. Me falling on my arse. The offer of a drink. It hadn’t occurred to me in the drama of the dog hunt, but this is another meet-cute.