Читать книгу Saving Missy - Beth Morrey - Страница 18

With Otis passed out on the sofa, we drank Prosecco and ate leftover macaroni cheese warmed up in the microwave. Her flat was tiny – a living room with a kitchenette at one end, a minuscule bathroom off the rabbit hutch hallway and a bedroom with twin beds pushed together – one for her and one for Otis. I was a little shocked, but she assured me this was pretty good for London. As we ate the pasta, she told me about her friend Felicity and her dreadful husband.

‘She met him through work – she’s a journalist like me, but much more principled. Writes about climate change, saving the whales, that sort of thing. She was interviewing a local businessman about some campaign that was going on, something about cutting down trees. He asked her out, and you know. Six months later they’re married and she’s up the duff.’

Angela scraped a spoonful of cheese sauce out of the serving bowl and continued. ‘He changed after they were married. Started slowly, just comments about her appearance and stuff. She was skin and bone by the time he started hitting her. He’s really careful and you’d never suspect a thing talking to him – very plausible. But I’ve seen the bruises.’

‘Why didn’t she get out sooner?’

‘The children, I suppose. Though you’d think they’d be a reason to leave. But mostly because she had nowhere to go. He threatens her, says she’ll lose the kids – and she believes him because she’s had years of him grinding her down. She hasn’t worked in ages, she’s got no money. But I’ve been trying to persuade her for months, and last week she finally agreed, but only after he nearly put her in hospital. Bastard.’

I took a gulp of wine. ‘Where are they now?’ I asked, not sure I wanted to know.

‘In a women’s refuge. We’re trying to get her to press charges. But at least she’s out. And, thanks to you, once she’s sorted herself out she can have Bob back and get on with her life. She really loves that dog.’ She reached down and scratched Bob, who was waiting for scraps. Angela told me I wasn’t to feed her anything from the table as that encouraged begging. She had to be walked twice a day, fed twice a day and brushed regularly to stop her fur matting. Then there was worming, and anti-tick treatment, and teeth cleaning and Lord knows what else. I was regretting my decision again but then thought of Felicity’s bruises, and my back door, and resolved to make the best of it.

As I gathered my things and put on my coat, Bob perked up and started prancing around excitedly. Her sudden enthusiasm was irritating.

‘See, she wants to go with you,’ observed Angela from the sofa, where she was finishing her wine and stroking a sleeping Otis.

‘Well, I’m not taking her on a walk or anything, only back to my house,’ I said, clipping on her lead.

‘She might need a wee on the way,’ warned Angela. ‘Oh, that reminds me.’ She jumped up and went over to her poky kitchenette, rummaging in a drawer before triumphantly producing a package, which she handed over to me. ‘Poo bags! You’ll need a lot of those.’

This, as far as I was concerned, was the most appalling aspect of owning a dog. I couldn’t imagine how I was going to cope with it, but took the package and put it in my coat pocket.

‘Well. I should be going. Um, thank you,’ I said, rather stiffly, when I’d got to the door.

Angela came over to me and put her hand on my shoulder. ‘No. Thank you. You’ve done a great thing. I promise you’ll end up enjoying it. There are loads of dog walkers in the park, a whole pack of them, and they’re great fun. I’ll introduce you.’

Gingerly holding Bob’s lead as we walked home, I flicked through my little Rolodex of worries – what if the animal bolted? Would I be yanked off my feet? How would I stop her? Then the bewildering list of food that was toxic to dogs and must be kept away from her – chocolate, grapes, onions – what else? Toxic like the lake in the park. Recalling Angela’s promise, I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to mix with the dog walkers there, lonely as I was. I’d seen them, and they’d seemed a tad eccentric, always getting into fights with cyclists, and parents, and pretty much anyone who didn’t appreciate their pets as much as they did. But I’d done it now, so we’d have to get on with it. Hopefully Bob would be cheaper than an alarm system. Maybe even better company.

We arrived back and I unlocked the door, listening out for intruders as we went in. Bob immediately started sniffing around the house, tail wagging, scoping it out. I went through to the kitchen and made myself some tea, then took it to the living room where I found her curled on the sofa. Angela said she’d never been allowed on furniture and I certainly had no intention of letting her adopt any bad habits.

‘Off!’ I said sternly, holding one finger in the air and feeling like Barbara Woodhouse. Bob stared at me and scratched behind one ear with her back leg.

She probably had fleas. I went over to the sofa and pushed her. She resisted for a second, then tipped off in a sudden flurry of limbs. Scrabbling to regain her balance and dignity, she retreated to a position by Leo’s armchair and eyed me warily. She should have somewhere to lie down, at least. I looked around the room but there were no rugs of any kind, so I sacrificed my sofa throw, arranging it in a bed-shape on the floor near the fireplace. She stepped on to it, turning round and round before settling down with an inordinate sigh. It was a shame there was no fire in the grate, maybe I’d make one up tomorrow.

Picking up Mel’s book, I read for a while, occasionally looking up to check on Bob, who was sprawled in a running position, snoring, nose and legs twitching furiously. It was strangely soporific, and gradually the book slid onto my lap as I dozed.

Awoken by a loud and prolonged yawn from the fireplace, I looked at my watch and saw it was after midnight. Bob was watching me, head on one side. She yawned again.

Creaking to my feet, I shuffled to the door, turning back to look at her on her makeshift bed.

‘Well. Goodnight then. Stay.’ Bob’s tail thumped the floor.

I pulled myself upstairs to get ready for my own bed, but just as I was preparing to switch off the lights there was the scrabble of claws and a second later, her face appeared at the door.

This was not part of the plan at all. She had to be on the ground floor, deterring intruders, not lounging around in my bedroom. ‘No!’ I said firmly, leading her back downstairs. She followed me, tail wagging, then sat expectantly in the living room as I wondered what to do. In the end I dragged a couple of chairs from the dining room and made a barricade at the bottom of the stairs. Maybe I could buy one of those gates people got for toddlers. More expense.

I went back up to my room, and closed the door, listening out for her whining or scratching, but heard nothing. Angela had said she was a very good dog. One just had to be firm. I went to sleep thinking about where we would walk the next morning, and if we might meet Otis. He could throw a stick for her, and she could wait outside the playground while we played on the swings.

I slept deeply, and in the morning when I awoke, two things struck me at once. One: Bob was curled at the end of my bed, snoring loudly, hairs all over the covers, the door to my bedroom still closed. And two: for the first time in my life, ever since Fa-Fa told us the story about the ripper who sang nursery rhymes from the wardrobe before he cut up his victims, I hadn’t checked the cupboards before I went to sleep.

Cave canem. Beware the dog.