Читать книгу Raincoats and Retrievers - Cressida McLaughlin, Cressida McLaughlin - Страница 5

Cat Palmer was about to go on her first date in a very long time, and her nerves were making her indecisive. She rearranged her chestnut, elfin-cut hair. She ruffled it, smoothed it and ruffled it again, turning her head in the mirror.

It was partly the long gap – she’d been single since her relationship with teacher Daniel had come to an end nearly two years before – and she’d settled a bit too well into single life. They’d been happy together, at the beginning, but Cat had never been able to summon up the adoration for Daniel that he undoubtedly felt for her. Cat sometimes wondered whether she was looking for something that didn’t exist, whether she should have stayed with Daniel and waited for her affection to grow into love, but the dominant, more romantic part of her brain told her that there was more out there for her, someone she could truly fall for. Was tonight the start of that?

There was no denying that her nerves were mostly to do with the man she was meeting. Mark. Scriptwriter and dog owner, effortlessly good-looking, as charming as he was quick-witted. Cat shuddered just thinking about him. Tonight was the culmination of months of fancying and sidestepping, flirting and innuendo, one kiss on the front steps in early summer.

She had chosen her best dress for the occasion; deep red with a cinched-in waist, full skirt and scooped neckline. Her sandals were pale gold with a low heel, her toenails as red as her dress. Fairview was under the spell of a shimmering August sun, and it had been the kind of day when winter seemed impossible, something that never visited the south coast. Cat couldn’t imagine a setting, or a scenario more perfect – and yet, along with the anticipation, she was apprehensive.

Cat had never met anyone as good at flirting as Mark was. He had the ability to make her feel like the only woman in the world, and could turn on the charm like a Bunsen burner. And despite his promising her dinner almost as soon as they met, it had taken months to pin him down. Their dinner date had originally been booked for three weeks earlier, but he’d been called away to London, his latest script in the early stages of production. Mark was mysterious and elusive, and Cat had had enough of that. She wanted to get to know him.

‘Cat,’ Joe called from the bottom of the stairs. ‘It’s seven fifteen. Isn’t he coming at half past? Are you still in the shower?’

Cat grinned. ‘I’m nearly done!’ she shouted. ‘Thanks, though!’

Joe, housemate, brother of her best friend Polly and – Cat hoped by now – good friend in his own right, wasn’t mysterious. He was dependable, honest (sometimes a bit too honest), and straightforward, qualities Cat was beginning to find as attractive as the man himself. He was blond, but with skin that tanned easily – Cat had been treated to more of his well-honed body this summer than was strictly necessary – and his blue eyes could beat her in a staring contest hands down. After a rocky start, they were slipping into an easy friendship, which apparently now included timekeeping duties.

She spritzed perfume behind her ears, checked the contents of her red evening bag and went downstairs, treating the others to a full twirl.

‘Wow.’ Polly looked up from her revision notes, her chewed pen-lid falling onto the table. She had her final exams over the next few weeks, an anxious wait until the end of September and then – Cat was confident – would be a fully qualified veterinary nurse. At the end of the month Cat would have her best friend back, and she couldn’t wait.

‘Cat Palmer,’ Polly said, ‘you look amazing.’

Cat gave a nervous smile. ‘Thanks. Thought I’d make an effort.’

‘You’ll knock his socks off,’ Polly assured her.

‘He probably doesn’t wear socks in the summer,’ Joe said. ‘He’s probably the kind of guy who wears brogues without socks. I bet he’s that guy.’

‘Joey.’ Polly hit her brother’s arm and Shed, Joe’s large ginger cat, looked up with one open eye from where he was lying splayed out along his owner’s lap. Cat and Shed hadn’t made friends when she’d moved in at the beginning of the year, but since finding out from a neighbour that his purr was bigger than his pounce, Cat had warmed to him. Not that she’d admit that to Joe.

‘Sorry,’ Joe said. ‘You look fantastic, Cat. I just – I hope he treats you well, that’s all.’

Polly laughed. ‘You’re not her dad.’

‘No,’ Joe admitted, ‘but that doesn’t mean I can’t look out for her. I’d look out for you.’

‘Awwwww.’ Polly grabbed her brother round the shoulders and pulled him towards her. Joe rolled his eyes and put up with the hug for three seconds, before shrugging himself out of it.

‘Thanks, Joe,’ Cat managed. His comment was working its way into her brain, mixing with her own anxieties, but the doorbell rang, making her jump, and she realized she no longer had time to worry.

This was it.

Cat ran her hands down her dress and, turning away from her friends, went to open the door.

‘Hello,’ Mark said, giving her his full-beam grin, and Cat’s nerves were swallowed by desire.

Mark was wearing a white Ralph Lauren shirt, the top two buttons open, over dark jeans and navy shoes. Cat couldn’t see socks, but then she couldn’t see ankles either. His dark brown hair had been cut recently, but still had enough length to be attractively messy, and his brown eyes latched instantly onto hers.

‘Hi,’ Cat said.

‘I’ve come to take you for a walk, if that’s OK?’ Mark raised his eyebrows.

‘A walk? I thought we were going out to dinner.’

‘A short promenade with the owner of Pooch Promenade, before our meal. I’ve been harbouring a lot of jealousy for all those dogs, so now it’s my turn.’

‘Ah. Well, I’m not really wearing the right shoes…’

‘No,’ Mark agreed, eyeing her appreciatively, ‘you don’t tend to walk them looking like that. You’re stunning. It’s a very short walk, I promise. Shall we?’ He held out his elbow and Cat leant back into the living room, gave Polly and Joe a final wave and then took Mark’s arm and closed the door behind her. They walked the short distance from number nine Primrose Terrace to number four, and Mark unlocked his Audi.

‘There,’ he said. ‘That’s the walking part done with. Though I guess if we’re both well behaved…’

‘What?’ Cat asked, sinking into the warm leather passenger seat.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘you give your dogs treats, don’t you?’ He flashed her another grin and started the engine.

‘Little bone-shaped chews,’ Cat said. ‘Though I wouldn’t recommend them as an appetizer. I tried one once and it was disgusting.’ Her mouth was drying out. She wasn’t in Mark-mode, ready to deflect his quick comments and his innuendo.

‘That’s not quite what I meant,’ Mark said, his voice light.

‘Oh.’ Cat closed her eyes as realization dawned, feeling a warm flush creep up her neck; nerves were jumbling her thoughts and she felt clumsy and awkward. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked, hoping the change of subject would give her some breathing space.

‘You’ll see.’ Mark pulled away from the kerb. Like everything else about him, his driving was assured. He wasn’t overly fast, but once they’d left the wide streets of Fairview, then the sprawling suburbs of Fairhaven, and made it onto the A-road that rose up behind the town and gave a stunning view of the sea, he put his foot down. They were going east, and Cat had to peer past Mark to watch the sun dropping spectacularly over the water.

He was so close, his thigh just beyond the gear stick, and Cat wished she could reach over and casually put her hand on it. But her palms were sweaty, and she’d probably end up grabbing it too hard, or missing it altogether and…she shook the embarrassment of that thought away. ‘You didn’t want to stay in Fairview, then?’ she asked.

‘I told you I’d take you somewhere special,’ Mark said. ‘Not that Fairview isn’t great, but – I owe you this. For taking so long to get round to it.’ They’d met in March and had been dancing round each other for five months, though Mark had allowed Cat to look after Chips, his Border collie, when he’d gone to London. ‘I’m intrigued,’ she said. ‘I don’t know the area beyond Fairhaven very well.’ This was much safer ground. She leaned her head against the headrest.

‘Neither do I, but I had help. Someone we both know who’s quite good when it comes to food.’

Cat sat up and looked out of the window, hiding her face from him. Jessica. Food writer and owner of three beautiful Westies, she had been Cat’s first official client for her dog-walking business Pooch Promenade. Cat had originally believed that Jessica and Mark were an item. They were both beautiful, both writers. Jessica was a bona-fide celebrity and Mark moved in the same circles, with two films under his belt and a third in pre-production. More than once, Mark had assured her they were just friends, but had he really been talking to her about their date? Did he confide in her about everything?

‘Jessica suggested it?’ she asked, trying for lightness and not managing it. ‘Then it must be good.’

‘We’re about to find out.’ Mark, unaware of, or ignoring, her discomfort, indicated right and drove down a twisty, narrow road, before turning between two trees and onto a gravel driveway. They were still high up, and the low building they parked in front of sat snugly on the side of the hill, as if it had been carved out of the rock. Mark helped Cat out of the car, and they approached the entrance, the sign above confirming they’d reached Highcroft Manor and Vineyard. Beyond the building, Cat could see neat rows of vines sloping down towards the sea, rays of golden sun picking them out in sharp relief.

‘If the food is as good as the view…’ Cat murmured.

‘And you already know the company is,’ Mark said cheekily. He put his hand on the small of her back and led her through the door.

They were greeted by a smartly dressed woman with a high, tight ponytail. Mark gave his name and she led them into a large square room with a bar at its centre, floor-to-ceiling windows making the most of the landscape beyond. The carpet was cream, the tables and chairs dark wood to match the bar, the lighting low but warm. The whole place exuded luxury. They could easily be in southern France rather than perched on a hill overlooking the English Channel.

Mark had reserved them a table against the window, and he held back Cat’s seat for her, then sat opposite as the restaurant manager handed them the menus.

‘This is spectacular,’ Cat whispered, feeling awkward and underdressed, despite the effort she’d made. The restaurant was full, but the atmosphere was soft, quiet, well-behaved. Cat’s nerves ratcheted up a notch as she was handed a wine list as long as her arm, the offerings mostly in French. ‘But I don’t know anything about wine.’

‘Let me pick that,’ Mark said. ‘Just focus on the food.’

‘Oh, right,’ Cat said, ‘OK.’ She felt a burst of anger that he was taking charge, that he’d brought her to a place where she couldn’t be in control of her choices. But then, was that his fault? It was Jessica who’d suggested this place, and the reminder of that didn’t make her feel any better. She glanced over the menu, her eyes widening at the descriptions: Seared, hand-dived scallops; Beetroot with nuts, seaweed and chocolate.

‘This place is something else,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know where to start.’

She tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice but Mark looked up, a hint of a frown lowering his brows. ‘We just need to pick what we like the look of, identify some ingredients we know. Beetroot and chocolate?’

Cat screwed her face up.

‘You’ve never had chocolate beetroot cake?’

Cat shook her head. ‘You have?’

‘No,’ Mark said, grinning. ‘It sounds disgusting. Jessica’s really outdone herself here,’ he said, eyes scanning the menu again. ‘One of them looks like it might be a steak, if you ignore the fancy bits. Do you like steak?’

Cat smiled, loosening up a little; Mark’s cheeky good humour was starting to infiltrate her tense mood. ‘Love it. And I think that starter is pâté and toast, even though it says galantine de canard with organic olive crostini and champagne jam.’

‘What a waste of champagne.’ Mark shook his head. ‘But that’s two courses we’ve deciphered. Let’s leave the pudding and be spontaneous, pick the one that makes the least sense.’

‘And the wine?’ Cat held up the wine list.

‘We could make up for the jam and have champagne.’

‘But you’re driving.’

‘I can have one glass.’

‘No, wait—’ but Mark had already called the waiter over, and Cat didn’t want to hiss at him to stop, so she focused on the orange glow of the sun as it sank over the horizon. If she lived somewhere with a view like this then she’d give up on life. She’d sit in a chair, slowly fusing with the fabric as she watched the changing sea and sky, the clouds, the sun, birds and boats passing her …

‘Cat?’

‘Sorry.’ She turned back and smiled. The lights in the restaurant had dimmed, a candle in a tarnished silver holder flickering between them, and Mark was looking at her with his dark, smiling eyes. Cat felt the butterflies low down in her stomach.

‘If I’d known this place was going to be quite so pretentious, I would have taken you somewhere else.’

‘It’s definitely impressive. And the view is stunning.’

‘I was going for special, not incomprehensible.’

Cat shook her head. ‘I’m sure the food will be delicious, even if the descriptions are a bit over the top. Mark, you’ve brought me to a beautiful restaurant for dinner. There’s nothing to apologize for.’ She felt that maybe, after her initial awkwardness and nerves, things were changing. He was apologizing – she’d never seen him anything but entirely confident up until now – so perhaps she was about to see beyond his charm and flippancy, and discover more of the real him? This was what she’d been waiting for, and she wasn’t about to let the chance slip by. ‘Tell me about your films. I want to know everything.’

‘Everything?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Not about the disaster.’ ‘Especially the disaster.’

She listened intently, pausing only when the waiter interrupted them with the champagne, as Mark told her about writing the screenplays, about the challenge of finding someone to make them, the shooting process, artistic differences, location nightmares. His films sounded like the gritty British horrors that Cat would find late at night on BBC2 and turn off, because she couldn’t bear the thought of going to bed alone afterwards. Not Hollywood slashers, full of glamorous people and too much unrealistic blood, but dark corners on dingy estates, things lurking where they shouldn’t, scenarios on the edge of being possible.

Since they’d met, Mark had been smooth and over-confident, but now he was self-deprecating, telling Cat about mistakes he’d made, personality clashes, upsetting one lead actress by mistaking her for the make-up assistant. He made Cat laugh, and he seemed entirely focused on her, the candlelight flickering along his handsome jawline. It was still smug, but now that smugness seemed somewhat justified.

Mark topped up her glass as their empty plates – which had contained excellent pâté and toast – were cleared away.

‘It’s another world,’ Cat said. ‘It sounds impossible, juggling all the different elements, making sure everything works and the film gets made. And everyone swallows them up in an hour and a half and then forgets about them.’

‘Or not,’ Mark said. ‘Like everything creative, some films stay with people for a long time. That’s all I’m trying to do, make a film that matters to some people.’

‘You know, you don’t look like a horror-film writer.’

‘And what’s a horror-film writer supposed to look like?’ Mark narrowed his eyes, and Cat could see that he was intrigued, wanting to know what she thought of him.

‘Grungy,’ Cat said. ‘You’re so polished, and…effortless. You’re not dressed in a Marilyn Manson T-shirt, sitting in a dark corner, scribbling madly and watching Hammer Horror reruns.’

‘How do you know I don’t do that? That’s exactly what I do when I’m writing.’

‘Come on, Mark.’

‘Have you studied horror writers?’

Cat shook her head. ‘You think I should have done some research for tonight?’

Mark laughed. ‘I would have been touched, and perhaps a little disturbed, if you had. But you should google some famous horror writers. Sam Raimi, of Evil Dead fame, could pass as a mild-mannered businessman. And if you’re after polished, take a look at a photo of Wes Craven.’

‘The Scream films?’

‘And A Nightmare on Elm Street. Good smile, nice suits. You don’t have to look like a freak to want to write about freakish things, but I do get obsessed when I’m in the middle of a story, neglecting everything else. It’s a good thing I have Chips to remind me when it’s food time, or I’d slowly starve to death.

‘And if we’re talking stereotypes, what about you? You’re not a typical dog walker. I think of middle-aged, fleece-wearing women with scrappy ponytails, unbranded trainers and an inability to converse with anything that has less than four legs. You’re none of those things.’

‘That’s what I’m gearing up for,’ Cat said. ‘Give me a few years…’ She grinned. ‘Do you want to leave now?’

He returned her smile, shaking his head slowly.

‘OK,’ she continued, ‘so I can get over the fact that you don’t look the part –’ Mark rolled his eyes – ‘but what’s the plot of your latest film? The one you’re trying to make at the moment.’

Mark glanced at the tabletop, moved his spoon around. ‘It’s about a man who moves out of London to a rural town, to be close to his mother, who’s dying in a care home. He’s had to rent somewhere at short notice, and it’s far too big for him. He’s in this strange place, summoning the courage to confront his mother about this huge, unresolved secret from his childhood, and he realizes that he’s not alone in the house.’

‘Wow. That sounds…scary. And different, from your last two. Not so grizzly.’

Mark nodded. ‘I thought, after the last one went so wrong – I mean, everyone’s pitched a film on a dark, run-down council estate. It’s not original any more, and the panning it got told me that. I wanted this setting to be much lighter, to see if I could still create that darkness, to build it around this guy who’s been wrong-footed by everything, dealing with his past, family secrets, moving away from his existing life to a large, empty house with – supposedly – only him in. It’s different, but I know it can work. And I can’t be the only one, because I’ve got this producer interested, so…’ He shrugged, but Cat could see the fire in his eyes, pinpoints of colour high on his cheeks. She could see how much he cared.

‘It sounds brilliant – definitely creepy. I’ve gone cold just thinking about it. Did you get your inspiration from Fairview, and your house on Primrose Terrace?’

‘Not originally.’ He narrowed his eyes slightly. ‘I started it before I moved here, but now I’m suddenly living in a house that’s too big for me, away from London…’

‘Life imitating art.’

‘Looks like it,’ Mark said, taking a drink of water.

‘Any dogs in it?’ Cat asked.

‘Is that the only way you’d be interested in seeing it?’ He laughed.

‘No, of course not. But I was thinking of all the different ways you could get a dog into a horror film. Maybe not the plot you’ve just told me, but a dog could come across the first dead body, digging in the garden, or – like the one Chips is named after – it could be a rescue dog. Or, or –’ Cat began to get animated, waving her arms about – ‘you could have zombie dogs. Has that been done before? Zombie dogs would be fast and small, they’d get among people’s ankles and bite them, turning everyone much quicker. And it would be extra terrifying, because dogs are usually so lovable. Actually –’ Cat screwed her face up – ‘maybe not that last one. I’m not sure I’d like it.’

‘No zombie dogs then,’ Mark said. ‘Got it.’

‘But maybe this guy could have a dog, a companion, who also senses that something’s wrong with the house. It would prove to him that he’s not going mad, give it more credence.’

Mark gave her an appraising look. ‘You might be on to something there.’

‘Oh, I don’t know – ignore me. But I’d love to see your films.’

He laughed.

‘What?’

‘You said that like someone was holding a gun to your head.’

‘I did not!’ Cat protested. ‘I would like to see your films, but just maybe…maybe not with the lights off. I’m not good at watching horror films before bed.’

‘Even if you weren’t on your own?’ Mark asked, leaning back in his chair.

Her insides fizzing, Cat returned his gaze.

Their steaks arrived and they ate in a charged silence, until Mark asked her how the dog walking was going, whether Polly had finished her exams and how Frankie was getting on with her lodger. Leyla, one of the other nurses from Fairview vet’s, had loved the room and was moving in some time that week.

Cat was pleased that she’d been able to help Frankie and her children. She was fitting into life at Primrose Terrace, and there was a niggling voice at the back of her mind asking her if it was wise to have a relationship with one of the neighbours. Mostly, she told that voice to back off, because it was hard to meet people, and you couldn’t base your relationship decisions on how awkward it would be if things went wrong.

Mark topped up her glass, and Cat sipped the bubbles, enjoying the taste of top-quality champagne.

‘Now,’ Mark said. ‘Dessert?’

‘Undecipherable dessert.’

They found their answer at the same time: Lemon posset with caramel honey tuile and pomegranate espuma. Cat watched Mark order them with a straight face and, when the waiter had gone, and she had managed not to descend into giggles, he reached over and took her hand.

The sun was just a thin line of burnished red marking the break between sea and sky, and she could see herself and Mark reflected back at her in the window.

‘Cat,’ he said, and there was something about his voice that made her breath catch in her throat. ‘I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get to this point.’

Cat shook her head. ‘You’ve been busy, it’s OK.’

‘It’s not. I have been distracted, with the move, the new film. But I don’t want you to think that you’ve been an afterthought. You haven’t.’

‘OK.’ Cat swallowed. ‘Thank you. I did wonder if we were going to sidestep around each other for ever. But this is – this is great. Getting to know you. A little bit, anyway.’

‘This isn’t a one-off,’ Mark said. ‘At least, I don’t want it to be. But what do you think? It hasn’t been a total disaster, has it?’ His thumb stroked her hand.

‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘Despite the threat of beetroot and seaweed, I think it’s going well.’

The candle cast shadows of his eyelashes on his cheeks, and his skin looked dark against the crisp white of his shirt. Cat shivered and rearranged her serviette on her knee.

‘Are you cold?’

‘No, I’m fine. How’s Chips?’

‘She’s good,’ Mark said. ‘I took her for an extra-long walk this afternoon, through the park and up along the cliffs, so hopefully she’s tired out and not missing me too much. You have a cat, don’t you? What’s his name?’

‘Shed. He’s OK, though he’s not actually mine, he’s Joe’s. I wouldn’t have picked a grumpy ginger cat as a pet.’

‘It’s always puzzled me, why you don’t have a dog of your own.’

Cat gave him a quick smile. She didn’t want to say anything to turn Mark against Joe. If things kept going in the right direction, she wanted them to be friends. ‘It’s not practical with Shed there, he can only just tolerate human company. But I’m not short of canine companions. The Barkers’ retrievers are lovely – quite different to the schnauzers or the Westies. They’re strong and they like long walks, but they’re very affectionate, playful. I somehow feel more confident when I’m walking them.’

‘I don’t think I know the Barkers.’

‘They live at number six. In their forties I think, their kids are grown up and off being independent, and Will and Juliette both have quite high-powered jobs. Juliette works at home some days, but when she’s in the office I take Alfie and Effie out. Will likes surfing. There’s quite a bit of it around here, apparently.’

‘Now that’s something I haven’t tried,’ Mark said.

‘Would you like to?’

‘Oh, I’m up for anything once.’

Cat narrowed her eyes. ‘Anything? Even eating a fugu fish or swimming with sharks?’

‘Sure.’ Mark shrugged. ‘Why are your fears so marine-based?’

‘They’re not – those things just popped into my head. I love the sea. I suppose if your passion is horror, you don’t scare particularly easily.’

‘Other things scare me,’ Mark said. ‘Unpredictable things.’

‘Like what?’ Cat asked, and then, because it was going so well and she wanted to try and match Mark for playfulness while also doing a bit of digging, added, ‘Because saying you’re afraid of commitment isn’t unpredictable.’

Mark grinned. ‘I know that. You’re doing me a disservice, that’s not what I was going to say. And I’m not afraid of commitment. I was in a long relationship, before this.’ His grin faded, but he held Cat’s gaze.

‘How long have you been single?’ she asked quietly.

Now he did look away. ‘Nearly a year.’

‘And how long were you together?’

‘Six years,’ Mark said. ‘Moving down here was – is – part of the fallout. Getting some space, starting again.’

‘Six years is a long time,’ Cat said, thinking of the photo of the woman on Mark’s fridge door. But if they’d broken up…‘She must have meant a lot to you.’

‘She did,’ Mark said. ‘You can’t be with someone for that long and not feel it when it ends. But it did, and you get past it. It’s how life works. And tonight, this – with you – it’s the most fun I’ve had in a long time.’

He took her hand again, and Cat opened her mouth to reply, but the moment was broken by the waiter delivering their desserts to the table. Cat looked down at the pale yellow blancmange, the blob of vivid pink foam and golden sugar decoration. She dipped her spoon in and brought it to her lips, her eyes widening as the flavours hit her tongue. ‘Wow,’ she mumbled, ‘indecipherable food is delicious.’

After Mark had refused to let her go Dutch and had paid the bill, and they’d finally pushed their chairs back from the table, the restaurant was nearly deserted. The three courses and coffee had gone some way to counteracting the most of a bottle of champagne that Cat had drunk, but she was still feeling a warm, hazy glow.

They stepped out into the night-time breeze and Mark wrapped his arm around her waist. He opened the car door for her but before she’d had time to get in, he cupped her face, pulled her towards him and kissed her. It felt delicious, her whole body tingling in response to his lips on hers, and the whisper of the hilltop breeze. She wrapped her arms around him, his warmth contrasting with the goosebumps on her arms.

They were quiet on the drive home, Cat breathless from the kiss, and the anticipation of what could happen when they got back to Primrose Terrace. The lights of the town winked in the darkness as the Audi purred down the hill, into Fairhaven and then the more familiar streets of Fairview, finally stopping outside Mark’s house. He leaned over and kissed her again, his fingers caressing her neck.

‘Did you want to come inside?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ Cat waited for Mark’s smirk, his wide, charming grin, but he just nodded and climbed out, opening the door for her.

They made it up his front steps before he kissed her again, enclosing her in his arms under the soft glow of the hanging lantern over the front door. Cat let herself be drawn in. She had almost lost herself to him completely when a familiar voice called up to them.

‘Cat, is that you?’ She broke away and turned, blinking quickly, and saw Juliette Barker, her black corkscrew curls pulled away from her face, hands clasped in front of her. She was wearing a cream business suit that looked almost peach under the street light. Cat thought for an awful moment she was about to be told off for kissing in public.

‘Juliette. Hi. How are you?’

Juliette nodded and gave a quick smile. ‘Fine, fine. Sorry to disturb, but could you walk Effie and Alfie tomorrow? Only Will had told me he was going to be at home all day, and I’ve arranged a series of important meetings in the office, but now he’s got some surfing meet-up that he apparently has to attend. Anyway, he can’t take the dogs and nor can I. Are you around? I was coming to your place but I looked in this direction and –’ She indicated the pair of them standing, post-snog, on the doorstep.

‘O-of course I can fit them in,’ Cat said. Mark ran his fingers up Cat’s back and she tried to shimmy away from him. ‘What time?’

‘Eleven? They’ll be running rings round the furniture by then, and I –’ She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Sorry, this is incredibly rude of me. I can see you’re in the middle of…’

‘It’s no problem,’ Cat said, not wanting to get into a discussion with her neighbour about what she was or wasn’t in the middle of. ‘They’re such lovely dogs, and sometimes things don’t fit easily into working hours.’ She smiled, and Juliette seemed to relax a little.

‘Great, thank you.’ She glanced between them. ‘You’re Mark, aren’t you?’

‘Guilty as charged,’ Mark said, holding his hand up in a static wave. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘Do you like surfing?’

‘Never tried it,’ Mark admitted. ‘Your husband, Will, he enjoys it?’

‘Far too much,’ Juliette said. ‘Well, maybe that’s unfair. He enjoys it at the expense of almost everything else. I know it’s a good hobby, it keeps him fit, he gets lots of fresh air – but he seems so obsessed with it. He spends his life down at that cove. Why do men get so obsessed with things? It doesn’t seem healthy.’

‘I get obsessive,’ Mark said. ‘Not about surfing, but my work – my writing.’

‘And Joe, my housemate,’ Cat joined in, ‘is anal when it comes to so many things. Feet on the coffee table, talking during films, dogs in the house…’ she added quietly. ‘I think it’s just a man thing.’

‘He used to be obsessed about work,’ Juliette said ruefully. ‘But not any more. Now it’s new wetsuits, streamlining his board, catching the waves – as if they don’t happen every hour of every day. He’s started talking in a new language – it’s all “hang fire”, or, no, what is it? I’m sure it’s “hang” something. I can’t remember.’ She sighed and shook her head, a curl escaping and falling over her face.

Mark and Cat exchanged a glance.

‘Sorry,’ Juliette said, shaking her head. ‘I don’t mean to – I’m still interrupting. I’ll leave you to it.’

‘No, Juliette,’ Cat said, ‘we don’t mean for you to go, it’s just…’

‘Thank you so much for walking the dogs tomorrow, Cat. Have a good evening.’ She gave them a brusque smile and turned, her court shoes echoing as she walked the few yards back to number six.

Cat watched her go, her embarrassment at being interrupted fading as Mark snaked his arm around her waist. But as she spun to face him she noticed a car parked further up the road, and her stomach swooped for an entirely new reason.

‘Now,’ Mark murmured, his lips brushing her neck. ‘Are you coming inside? I don’t think there’s anything you can do to prepare for walking Juliette’s dogs, is there?’

Cat closed her eyes. His touch and his taste, his confidence, his dark eyes, they were all so enticing. ‘I – I can’t,’ she said. She put her palms flat on his chest. He flinched slightly and tried to pull her closer, but Cat resisted. ‘There is nothing I would like more than to come in with you right now. But I can’t.’

‘Why?’ He smiled at her, only a hint of confusion on his face. ‘Because of Juliette?’

‘No, not that. Because the red Renault with a World’s Greatest Inventor bumper sticker that’s parked outside number nine belongs to my parents.’ She sighed and rested her head against his chest, which was a mistake, because it felt good and it made her even more reluctant to leave. ‘They must have come for an impromptu visit and – depending on how long they’ve been there – Polly and Joe might be beyond rescuing.’

‘Then there’s no need to go back,’ Mark said, ‘if it’s too late to save them.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ she murmured, leaning in for a final, delicious kiss. ‘If I thought I could get away with it, I’d stay.’ Reluctantly, she left Mark standing on the top step, watching her. His face gave nothing away, no frustration, no flicker of disappointment. She reached number nine, searched through her bag for her keys and then, pushing open the front door, went in to face the carnage.