Chapter Twenty-One
‘Well, darling,’ I warbled. ‘We’re on our way. Back to my place. Yours too, now. Your fur-ever home.’
I glanced at the car’s rearview mirror. Bess was sitting on the back seat, her body ramrod straight and blocking all view of the traffic behind us.
Bess had refused to jump into my hatchback’s boot. One of the kennel maids had pointed out that my German Shepherd’s hips weren’t up for leaping. I’d had the foresight to bring an old towel along with me. It had then been laid across the rear seat’s upholstery.
‘Let her clamber in through the side door,’ the kennel maid had said. The advice had worked a treat.
I glanced again at the rearview mirror. A pair of brown eyes met mine. There was now a light in those eyes – a light that had been missing when I’d first met Bess. The tips of her enormous ears were firmly pointing north, and a long pink tongue flopped south.
Upon leaving the sanctuary, I’d buzzed down the rear windows – not so far that Bess could jump out, but enough for her to stick her head out should she so wish. After all, I didn’t want her overheating. Summer was just around the corner, and although the temperature had yet to truly rise, I knew dogs in hot cars was a no-no.
‘Is that a nice breeze?’ I asked her.
Bess’s nose continuously twitched, catching different scents wafting through the open window.
‘Mummy can’t wait to show you the house,’ I prattled.
Was it okay to refer to oneself in such a way? Did other dog owners speak to their charges as if they were children? I tried to remember if Dylan had done the same with Charlie.
Dylan.
Dylan with his dark hair, a touch of grey making him dashing and distinguished.
Dylan with eyes that matched the seas portrayed in holiday brochures.
Dylan with the build of an athlete and the height of a male model.
Gorgeous Dylan.
I sighed. Bess emulated me and eased down on her belly. Oh good. I could see in the rearview mirror again. I now did so – and gulped at what I saw.
A lorry was fast approaching. The driver was showing no inclination to reduce speed, despite us both heading towards traffic lights on a major junction. I felt a frisson of alarm as the lights began to change to red.
Gently, I deployed the brake, and my vehicle began to slow. My eyes flicked back to the rearview mirror. Bloody hell, was that lorry going to hit me? I tensed, relieved that Bess wasn’t in the boot.
My car rolled to a stop just as the lorry driver belatedly applied his brakes. There was a horrendous squealing sound accompanied by the blare of a horn. I jumped, heart pumping unpleasantly. Why had he beeped me? I’d done nothing wrong.
My eyes once again darted to the rearview mirror. There was movement behind the windscreen. A second later, the cab door swung open. Uh-oh.
A pair of trousered legs were briefly revealed, then a pot-bellied balding man jumped down to the tarmac. He strode over to my car and rapped on the window. I buzzed it down an inch.
‘Yes?’ I quavered.
‘You silly cow,’ he snarled.
‘I beg your pardon?’ I spluttered.
‘Why didn’t you drive through those lights?’
‘Because they were on the change,’ I retorted.
‘But they weren’t red, were they?’
‘No, but–’
‘Do you know how long it takes for this junction’s lights to change?’
‘I don’t, but–’
‘Four minutes and thirty-nine seconds,’ he interrupted. ‘I timed it the last time a driver prematurely stopped – another bimbo.’
Bimbo?
‘Well, really–’
‘That’s four minutes and thirty-nine seconds of my life that I won’t get back.’
‘There’s only another three minutes and thirty-nine seconds to wait,’ I said sarcastically.
‘Is that meant to make me feel better? Because it doesn’t. Women like you shouldn’t be on the road. You meander from lane to lane, checking your lipstick, taking a selfie, posting to Instaprat, Facesplat, and Twatter–’
‘How dare you!’ I protested. ‘I do no such thing.’
I could feel my sap rising. This guy was bang out of order. I’d been driving safely. Sensibly. I certainly didn’t need this fruit loop shouting at me.
‘Fluffy women like you’ – he ranted, now in his stride – ‘should stay at home baking fluffy cakes and refolding your fluffy towels.’
‘And men like you’ – I snarled – ‘should stick to sitting on the loo reading your comic newspaper before shoving it right up–’
‘Women like you…’ he interrupted, his face puce with rage.
Except he got not further. Ominous growling rent the air. Suddenly the man was up close and personal with Bess. She’d stuck her head through the open back window. Her chest strained against the door.
The lorry driver visibly paled and took a step backwards. He’d failed to notice a huge German Shepherd languishing on the back seat.
‘I think what you meant to say’ – I said sweetly – ‘is that women like me need to be respected, or else we get girls like her’ – I jerked my head at Bess – ‘to sort out PLEBS LIKE YOU!’
And with that, Bess let rip with a volley of ferocious barks. The lorry driver turned on his heel and scuttled back to his cab. I buzzed the window fully down.
‘ONLY ANOTHER THIRTY-NINE SECONDS TO WAIT,’ I yelled after him – just as a cop car cruised to a standstill in the next lane.
Ploddy slowed. Gave me a stern look. Bess deigned to give Ploddy a warning woof too, then retracted her head. I hastily shut all the windows. That was the last thing I needed. Ploddy demanding to know why a furious woman and her equally furious dog were causing a burly lorry driver to flee.
Apart from anything else, if the incident made the local papers, Little Waterlow’s gossips would have a field day. I could imagine the headlines now:
LORRY DRIVER GOES MUTTS
Or
ALSATION PROVOCATION
Or even
LIGHT BITES AT THE TRAFFIC LIGHTS
Sixty-one-year-old Maggie King’s pooch went bark-serk when lorry driver Fatso Dickhead angrily questioned Mrs King’s driving skills. Mr Dickhead told re-paw-ters that he’d regrettably lost his temper due to having a ruff day, but assured local paw-lice that his bark was worse than his bite.
I let out a shaky breath.
Bloody hell. I mean, bloody hell.
‘Okay, darling,’ I quavered. ‘Good girl. Settle down.’
Bess, lowered her bottom, all the while grumbling to herself. My goodness, she’d been quite fearsome. But at no point had she tried to bite the lorry driver. She’d just warned him off. And protected me too.
‘Thank you,’ I said, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. ‘Us girls have to stick together, eh?’ She stared back at me benignly, although I could’ve sworn she winked.
The lights changed. I shoved the gear into first and accelerated away. Behind me, the lorry crossed the junction and took a right turn. Thank heavens. I didn’t fancy another second of him travelling behind me. Stupid man.
My mobile suddenly rang, making me jump for the second time in as many minutes. Freya. I pressed the handset icon on the car’s steering wheel.
‘Hello?’ I said, my voice a little shaky.
‘What’s up?’ she said. ‘You sound as if you’ve been electrocuted.’
‘I’ve just had an unpleasant altercation with a lorry driver eager to demonstrate his road rage skills.’
‘Hope you gave him the middle finger,’ said my sister.
‘I did better than that,’ I chuckled. ‘My dog terrified the living daylights out of him.’
There was a pause.
‘Your dog?’ said Freya eventually. Her tone was incredulous.
‘Yes, my dog,’ I said happily. ‘I’m on my way home with her. Her name is Bess. She’s an eight-year-old German Shepherd rescue and–’
‘No pun intended,’ interrupted Freya. ‘But have you gone barking mad?’
‘What do you mean?’ I said, instantly defensive.
‘How is a huge dog going to fit in with Mum and Dad?’
I frowned.
‘Bess will be living with me, not our parents.’
‘I’m talking about when you go over to their place. Or are you leaving this dog alone in your house for hours on end?’
‘No, of course not. Bess will come with me.’
‘Maggie, what world do you occupy?’ Freya’s voice had gone up an octave. ‘Large dogs do not mix well with Zimmer frames, walking sticks and pensioners with doddery legs. Anyway, I need you to spend tomorrow with Mum and Dad. I promised I’d take them out for coffee and cake, but unfortunately Vernon’s aunt has summoned us for tea. We can’t turn her down. She might be a cantankerous old bat, but Vernon is her sole beneficiary. We need to keep her sweet.’
‘Sorry, Freya,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow I’m working.’
‘Tomorrow is Saturday,’ Freya pointed out.
‘That’s right,’ I said evenly. ‘And I have a client who is getting married.’
Freya huffed with annoyance.
‘So get another photographer to cover it. Use one of your contacts.’
My mouth dropped open. Oooh, the audacity.
‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘No, I won’t do that. My client has booked me. She’s seen my portfolio, not the work of another photographer. So, sorry. No can do. If Vernon’s aunty disinherits him over not turning up for a cuppa, then she’s a control freak.’
‘Yes, she is, so I really need you–’
‘No,’ I repeated. ‘You’ll have to take Mum and Dad with you. Now please excuse me, Freya. Ella is trying to get hold of me,’ I lied. ‘Talk soon. Toodle-oo.’
I didn’t have another call waiting. However, it was best to cut off my sister before I impersonated Bess and delivered a few growler howlers of my own. I glanced at the rearview mirror again. Gave Bess a wicked grin.
‘That was Freya,’ I said. ‘My bossy sister. You have permission to put her in her place whenever you like.’