Chapter Eight
We don’t stand still for longer than a couple of seconds before all dashing around to the back of the food trucks. A black BMW is stationary, the driver’s door wide open with a lady kneeling at its front wheel. She looks up at us, the whites of her eyes stark against her drained face.
‘The dog came out of nowhere. I didn’t see it.’ Her hands are shaking as they hover over Tippi. The little dog’s eyes are open and her tongue is poking out between her teeth as she pants.
Milo calmly guides the woman to her feet, and Jackson and I crouch down next to the stricken terrier. He runs a hand down Tippi’s neck gently, then moves further down her body, feeling for anything untoward underneath her fur. When he gets to her back legs, Tippi gives a sharp, high-pitched whine.
‘Sorry, Tippi. Sorry,’ he murmurs.
‘What do we do?’ A huge cloud of guilt is hovering over me. I let my problems take over, and this is the result.
Jackson stands. ‘We’ll have to get her to a vet. I can’t take her in the van. It’ll take too long to pack away.’
‘I don’t have a car. I’ll ask Reeni,’ I say, already walking away.
Greg, who’s now standing next to me, puts a hand on my arm, stopping me. ‘I can take us. My car’s only over there.’ He points towards the part of the field being used as the car park.
‘Thanks,’ says Jackson. ‘I’ll let the vet know we’re coming.’
With Tippi laid gently on the back seat of Greg’s car, Jackson gets in beside her. I get into the front passenger seat and twist around to look at them.
‘Everything OK?’ I say, but Jackson stays looking at Tippi and simply nods.
I wince at every bump and dip the car hits on the journey.
Once we get there, the vet and Jackson get Tippi out of the car and take her into the consulting room.
Greg and I take seats in the empty waiting room.
I stare vacantly at the notice board opposite me covered in brightly coloured posters and photos of missing pets and puppies for sale, my imagination screeching into overdrive.
‘This is all my fault.’
Greg pats my leg. ‘It was an accident.’
The door beside reception swings open and I jump to my feet, shrugging off Greg’s touch.
‘Is she OK?’ I ask. I have the urge to comfort Jackson, but it’s like he has an invisible shield guarding him from my touch.
He won’t meet my eyes and slumps into one of the plastic chairs. ‘Don’t know.’
My voice cracks. ‘I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have been so dramatic. I’ll help to pay whatever it costs.’ I have absolutely no idea how I’ll manage that, but I’ll deal with it later.
Greg reaches over and squeezes my hand and I clasp it back, then extract it and tuck my hair behind my ear. We lapse into silence again, all staring straight ahead. After what feels like an age, the vet comes back into the room.
‘No promises, but I think she’s going to be fine. She’s on a drip and we need to let the swelling go down to be sure, but I think it’s a broken leg. She’s going to need an operation. I don’t know if you have insurance?’
‘I’ll check with Mum. But we’ll get it done whatever. Can I see her?’
‘Of course.’ The vet holds open the door for Jackson to go through.
I get out of my chair. ‘Can I come?’
‘No. I’ll go on my own,’ Jackson says, without turning to look at me.
I collapse back into my chair and the door to the back of the surgery swings shut.
‘Try not to worry.’ Greg puts his arm around my shoulders and squeezes. ‘I’m sure she’s going to be fine. Have you seen that programme on TV, The Supervet? They can do amazing things nowadays.’
‘I hope so,’ I say, still trying not to imagine the worst.
The journey back in the car is agony. Greg prattles away about how lovely the weather is and the holiday his brother and family are going on and I appease him with one-word answers while Jackson sits in the back, silent and impassive.
Every so often I catch his reflection in the rear-view mirror, jaw tight, arms crossed, staring out of the window like he can’t bear to look my way.
We drop him off first at his mum’s. It’s a lovely little cottage about ten minutes’ walk from the centre of Thorbridge.
Milo is already home as the VW van is sitting in the driveway.
‘I’m really sorry,’ I say again as he gets out of the car. ‘I’m sure she’ll be OK. If I can do anything …’
‘Hmm,’ is all I get before the car door is slammed shut. I didn’t think it was possible, but it makes me feel even worse.
I can’t get home soon enough and I’m opening the door of the car the second Greg pulls up.
I unlock the front door and head straight into the kitchen.
Greg follows, unfazed, whistling softly as he flicks on the kettle as if he lives here.
He makes me some honey on toast and then shoos me out of his way so he can make drinks.
Just as I plonk myself on the sofa, my phone dings.
REENI: Did you get sorted? How’s Tippi?
ME: We left her at the vet’s. They think she’s got a broken leg. How did you get on?
REENI: All good. We got rid of almost all the cakes. We made a decent amount. I’ve got it safe. I’ll bring it over tomorrow.
I glance towards the stack of bills sitting next to the kettle. I really should tell her to take the fifty-pound stall fee out of the takings, it’s the right thing to do.
ME: Keep the stall fee. Thanks so much for helping. I couldn’t have done it without you.
REENI: Don’t be daft. That was my gift and I loved it. I’ll help out any time.
I close my eyes for a second and relief rushes over me like warm water. That extra fifty pounds is immense. I take a bite of my toast and chew, but it’s hard to swallow. I’m not really hungry and feel like I’m forcing myself to eat.
REENI: If you needed help or wanted to talk you know you can don’t you?
ME: Of course. Everything’s great. Catch you tomorrow.
I switch my phone to silent and take another bite.
It balls in my mouth as I chew and I push the plate across the coffee table.
I’ll try to eat it later. I pull a cushion towards me and kick my feet up, wriggling to get comfy.
My head is thumping and all I can do is replay my stupid tantrum which sent Tippi running and then the sickening squeal of brakes before her horrible heart-wrenching yelp.
‘I got a reservation for the pub,’ says Greg, putting two mugs of tea down on the coffee table. ‘Tuesday at seven. That OK?’
‘Fab.’ It’s the last thing I’m bothered about. ‘Do you think Tippi will be OK?’
‘I’m sure she’ll be fine.’ He squeezes my knee and I shuffle my legs out of his reach.
‘Should I ring Jackson and see if he’s heard anything?’ I push myself upright out of the cushions. ‘Or his mum?’
‘Ellie, we’ve only been back half an hour.’ He frowns. ‘Don’t call him.’
‘But what if he blames me?’
‘Would it bloody matter if he did?’ He shrugs. ‘Why would you care, especially how he treated you today?’
‘What?’ I say, frowning. ‘I don’t want him to fall out with me. He was worried about Tippi.’
‘Yeah? And who wasn’t?’ Greg’s voice sharpens. ‘We helped him, drove him to the vets, and he barely managed a grunt. No thank you, nothing.’
There’s an uncomfortable pause as I stare at my cup.
‘Come here. I’m sick of him.’ Greg moves up the sofa closer to me and reaches his arm around me. ‘Can we stop talking about him, please?’
He pulls me to him and leans in to kiss me.
His gaze drops to my mouth and I stiffen, anticipating his lips.
He’s a good kisser, but he never sets fireworks off inside me.
He’s more of a comfort blanket, soft and cosy.
He nips at my bottom lip and his hand brushes my jawline then cups the back of my head.
I kiss him back, not an ounce of desire in sight.
I don’t have the energy to continue faking enthusiasm and I push him away gently before he gets past the point of no return. ‘Sorry. It’s been a hell of a day. I’m knackered.’
‘I’ll give you a massage to relax you if you want,’ he says, kneading my shoulder a bit too hard.
‘I think I want to go to bed.’ I subtly move out of reach.
‘If that’s what you want,’ he says, scowling.
I force a smile. ‘Looking forward to the meal on Tuesday though,’ I say, offering up a peace offering, hoping it’ll placate him.
It works. He gives me a kiss on the temple then stands. ‘Night then, love.’
When the door clicks shut behind him, I exhale and stare at the ceiling. My mind drifts back to Jackson. To the way he couldn’t even look at me when he got out of the car and the dismissive grunt I got as he walked away.
He blames me. Of course he does. And he’s not wrong. Because so do I.