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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

Copyright © HarperColl‌insPublishers 2015

Cover layout design © HarperCollinPublishers Ltd 2015

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Cressida McLaughlin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © April 2015 ISBN: 9780008135201

Version: 2015-08-07

To my family: Mum, Dad, Lucy and David

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Acknowledgements

Sunshine and Spaniels Extract

Keep Reading_ Primrose Terrace

About the Author

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

‘Now, just stay in the bag until I say so, OK? This could go one of two ways.’ Cat pushed the furry head back into her cavernous turquoise handbag and hoisted it up on her shoulder, pushing a strand of her pixie-cut chestnut hair out of her eyes. The sun was hesitant, the early March day too cold to be called balmy, but it was trying hard, and the thought that they were at last leaving winter behind gave Cat a spring in her step. She approached the main doors of Fairview Nursery, nodding and smiling at the clutches of parents, some with older children on their way to primary school, most with pushchairs, hoping that none of them would notice her bag’s unusual bulge.

Alison was already in the office, printing off the day’s register and listening intently to messages on the answerphone; parents calling to say their child was ill and would be absent from nursery, someone wondering about the Easter opening hours.

Cat lifted her bag off her shoulder and placed it carefully on the chair next to the coat hooks. It wriggled, her keys jingling alarmingly, and Alison flashed her a questioning look, her neat, dark brows knitting together below her glossy fringe. Cat shrugged off her coat and scarf, hung them up and filled the kettle.

‘Good morning,’ Alison said, when the messages had finished. ‘Did you have a nice weekend?’

‘Yes, thanks. A couple of nice long walks, a lie-in, a meal out with my friend.’

‘Polly?’

‘That’s right.’

‘The one you’re living with?’

‘Yes, and her brother.’ Cat stirred milk into her tea, and put a single sugar in Alison’s coffee. ‘I’ve known her for years, and when this job came up, they…’ she stuttered, ‘they had space so…’ Her words trailed away, and she wondered how her boss, a few years older than her and about three inches shorter, could make her feel as if she was always on trial for something. Or maybe it was just today, because looking at Alison, and listening to the muffled sounds coming from her handbag, Cat knew that she had made the worst decision since her move to Fairview.

She blew on her tea, attempting nonchalance. ‘How was your weekend?’

‘Good.’ Alison nodded once. ‘Can you come and help me get the children’s coats off? I’ll be letting them in shortly.’

Cat rolled her eyes. As ever, she was denied a glimpse into her boss’s personal life, any titbit of information that might help Cat understand why a woman in her early thirties could be completely devoid of warmth, and be in charge of a nursery. Cat prided herself on her ability to get to know people but Alison was an impossible case. She followed her into the classroom. Miniature chairs and tables were set out in front of a whiteboard, and there was a soft red carpet with scattered beanbags for story time. The craft area, with a sink, bottles of squeezy paints and a jumble of brightly coloured aprons, was in the far corner.

‘We’ll take the register on the carpet, then move into the first activity, exploring different sounds.’

‘Sure.’ Cat knew all this. Alison planned out her lessons in minute detail, and gave Cat a briefing every Friday afternoon on the following week’s plans, ensuring there was no room for error or spontaneity. Cat longed to say something, but as the assistant, and only two months into the job, she had tried to stay in line. Until today, anyway.

In the playground a couple of children, Peter and Tom, were pressing their noses up against the glass. Cat waved, and they waved back, their hands fingerless in woolly mittens. Behind them, Emma, four years old and one of the most mature children, waited patiently, her long hair in plaits while her mother pushed her baby brother’s pram backwards and forwards. Emma was holding onto Olaf’s lead, the cocker spaniel puppy smelling the shoes of everyone around him, his tail wagging constantly.

Cat’s wave froze in mid-air and her stomach lurched.

The small dog brought her thoughts back to her bag, and what was inside.

‘I’m letting them in now,’ Alison said.

‘Won’t be a sec,’ Cat called as she hurried out of the room. Alison sighed loudly and flung open the double doors.

Cat’s handbag was on the floor, halfway across the office, and making progress towards the door.

What if Alison had seen it first? Would she have called the police? Thrown it outside? Cat knew then that her plan hadn’t just been stupid, it had been mind-numbingly ridiculous. She scooped the bag up, undid the zip further, and a black button nose snuffled to the opening, followed by a fluff of grey fur and then two dark eyes, looking up at her. Her heart stopped pounding and started to melt, as it always did when she saw Disco, her neighbour Elsie’s miniature schnauzer puppy.

‘Shhhh, Disco,’ she whispered. ‘We’re going in the other room now, so you’re going to have to be really still and really quiet.’ Cat followed her instructions with a treat from her pocket, knowing how futile they were. You didn’t have to be a dog expert to know that being still and quiet were two things that did not come naturally to a puppy. She put her handbag over her shoulder and, as casually as she could, went back into the classroom.

Alison was removing coats and hats, assisted by parents who were reluctant to let their young children go, even for a few hours, and she gave Cat a meaningful backward glance. Cat placed her handbag at the back of the craft area, as far away from the carpet as possible. The bag emitted a tiny yelp, and Cat stuck her hand in, ruffled Disco’s thick, warm fur and zipped it half-closed.

‘Cat?’ Alison called, her voice high and tight. ‘Any chance of some help?’

Cat hurried to the door and welcomed the children in, taking their outer layers off and helping them to hang them on the multicoloured coat hooks. Emma bent down to say goodbye to Olaf, and Alison appeared next to her, her short frame still imposing for a four-year old.

‘Come on, Emma,’ she said, ‘leave the dog now. Time to go inside.’

Emma’s mother put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. ‘He’s called Olaf.’

‘Right,’ Alison said. ‘Well, we can’t have dogs inside – some of the children are allergic.’

‘You mean you’re allergic to fun,’ Cat muttered under her breath. Behind her Peter, three years old, let out a bubble of laughter, his blue eyes bright with mischief.

‘Shhh,’ she said, ‘don’t tell on me.’ She gave Peter a grin and sent him off to the carpet. Emma took off her coat and Cat could see she was blinking furiously, trying to force the tears back to where they’d come from. Cat resisted the urge to give her a hug – she knew Emma wouldn’t want that – and a stronger urge to let Disco out, delighting all the children and sending Alison into meltdown. She watched as the nursery owner let the last of her charges in, closed the door and ran slender hands over her hair and skirt, before turning to face the children and clapping her hands.

They assembled on the carpet, Alison at the front on one of the beanbags, Cat cross-legged in the middle with children clustered around her. She was wearing a red and white flower-print dress over leggings and boots, and had painted her nails the colours of Smarties, knowing that the children would love them. Sure enough they were soon pulling her hands towards them, running their fingers over the smooth, bright surfaces.

Alison took the register and explained that their activity was called ‘What’s that Sound?’ She started shaking a pair of pink plastic maracas. The children squealed and giggled, and reached out towards the box of instruments.

‘No, children,’ Alison said, holding up a finger, ‘I’m going to give you a musical instrument each, but you have to help me say what sound it’s making first. Right.’ She shook the maraca again. ‘What’s this?’

‘Snakes!’ Andrew shouted.

‘It sounds a bit like a snake’s rattle, doesn’t it? Excellent.’

A few of the children mimicked the noise. ‘Wwwhhsssssshhhhh.’

‘Good.’ She handed out maracas to some of the children.

‘It sounds like sand,’ Emma said.

‘That’s excellent, Emma,’ Alison said. ‘Can you think what might be a bit bigger than sand?’

Emma thought for a moment. ‘Stones?’

Alison nodded. ‘Small stones or seeds.’ She handed Emma a maraca. ‘Well done. The maracas are filled with seeds, or sometimes tiny stones, so that when you shake them they make a rattling noise. Now, everyone, what’s this?’

There was a chorus of ‘Drum!’ as Alison took out a tiny bongo drum and started tapping it. ‘And what do you do to a drum?’

‘Bang it! Hit it!’

Cat thought she heard a small yelp from the other end of the room, but a quick glance told her that her handbag hadn’t wandered. She began to relax, joining in with the drumming and handing out instruments.

Alison pulled the next item out of her box, and Cat froze.

‘Does anyone know what this is?’ Alison asked. She held the small metal item out in front of her.

The children looked perplexed, then Emma let out a gasp, her hand shooting up, fingers trying to touch the ceiling.

‘Yes, Emma?’

‘A whistle?’

Alison smiled. ‘That’s right, it’s a whistle. And what sound does it make?’

Emma shaped her lips into a tight ‘O’, preparing to whistle, and Cat shot from the carpet, nimbly jumping between the children to get to her handbag.

‘Cat? Where are you going?’ Alison’s tone was pleasant, but Cat heard the steel in it.

‘I – I just need to…’ She edged towards her handbag.

‘Please come and sit down,’ Alison said sweetly. ‘We’re having so much fun.’

Cat looked despairingly at the bag, then returned to the carpet and sat down slowly, wondering if she could delay the inevitable by freezing time. She planted a grin on her face.

Alison continued. ‘What sound does the whistle make, Emma?’

Emma made the shape with her lips and blew as hard as she could. What came out was a soft, wet raspberry noise. Emma looked surprised. ‘My mummy can do it,’ she said.

Alison nodded. ‘It takes a bit of practice, but you’re very close. Now this –’ she held up the whistle – ‘does it for you.’ She pressed it to her lips and blew.

Children shrieked, a couple put their hands over their ears and Tom shouted: ‘Dog!’

Alison frowned and gestured her palms towards the floor. ‘Dog?’

Cat risked a glance at her handbag. It was in the same place.

‘Dog!’ Tom shouted again, his bottom bouncing up and down on the carpet. ‘Dog!’

‘Well, yes,’ Alison said slowly, ‘lots of people use these to train dogs, but—’ She was interrupted by a quiet but determined yelp.

‘Dog!’ Tom shrieked again, and other children joined in. ‘Dog dog dog.’

Cat got onto her knees. If she crawled quickly, maybe she could get there in time. Children were imaginative; it would be dismissed as overexcitement. But then the little black nose, the grey fur and then the whole fuzzy, inquisitive head pushed out of the handbag’s opening, forcing the zip, and Disco was out. The puppy ran on her tiny legs towards Cat, knocking over three bottles of paint, and into the middle of the children, who erupted into delighted squeals.

Disco leapt and bounced and yipped and snuffled, exploring the sounds and smells and warm bodies around her, her little paws clambering on knees, small hands reaching out to stroke and tug her. Cat tried to gather the puppy to her, but Disco and the children were having too much fun, and so instead she turned to see her boss’s reaction, wondering fleetingly if she’d be pleased that Cat had made the children so happy, and realized she was doomed. Alison was standing with her arms folded, staring at Cat with eyes that burned right into Cat’s conscience. She gestured towards the dog, words unnecessary.

Disco was standing with her front paws on Peter’s knee, and Cat watched in horror as the patch of carpet around her back legs turned a darker shade of red.

‘Wee!’ Peter squealed.

Cat picked the puppy up and held her wriggling body tightly. The children reached out towards her, and as Cat left the carpet she caught sight of Emma. The young girl was grinning with undisguised satisfaction.

‘Right, children,’ Alison said, her voice sharp as ice, ‘that’s enough sounds for today. If you’d all like to go to your chairs, we can do some colouring-in until fruit time. Cat, go to the office and wait for me.’

‘Alison,’ Cat tried, ‘shouldn’t I clear up—’

‘I’ll be through as soon as I can.’ Alison turned back to the children. Peter was tugging on her skirt, his face bright and open. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘what is it, Peter?’

‘Allergic to fun,’ Peter said, pointing up at her. ‘Achoo!’

‘How could you do that to me, Catherine? After all we’ve talked about? All the rules we’ve gone through.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think.’ Cat was leaning against the table in the office, Disco tied to a bench outside the back door, because Alison couldn’t stand to look at it for a moment longer; not after the havoc it had caused. Cat didn’t think that reminding her that Disco was a she, not an it, would add weight to her cause.

‘You never do, not about the safety of the nursery. You’re imaginative, full of bright ideas, but you never stop, for one moment, to think of the consequences.’ Alison was walking backwards and forwards in the small, windowless space, her long plait swinging, her limbs tight with anger. ‘What part of you thought bringing a dog into my nursery would benefit anyone? The children could have been injured, infected – anything!’

‘I was helping out a friend,’ Cat murmured. ‘But I know, now, that I shouldn’t have done it.’ She shuffled her feet and looked at the floor.

‘Do you?’ Alison shot. ‘Really? Because I think that, given half the chance, you’d do it all over again. You’re not a completer-finisher, Cat, and that’s the kind of assistant I need. It’s not going to work out, but I think you already knew that.’

Cat’s stomach shrivelled. ‘If you could give me one more cha—’

‘No.’ Alison shook her head. ‘No more chances. I’m surprised you stayed in your last employment for as long as you did. You’re not reliable, you’re not supportive and, frankly, you’re downright disruptive. Your time at Fairview Nursery is over, and if I wasn’t so angry with you, I’d pity you. I can’t imagine you being successful anywhere else with this kind of attitude. Go out of the back door, and take that thing with you.’

‘Can I say goodbye—’

‘No. You’ll get a formal letter confirming my decision and a record of your final payment through the post.’

Cat stared at the floor, unable to respond as Alison left the room and slammed the door behind her. She pushed herself off the table and, swallowing down the sob hovering in her throat, collected her coat. Outside, Disco had managed to tie her lead round and round the leg of the bench, and was sitting with her nose pressed into the wood, as if she’d been told to sit in the naughty corner. It was exactly how Cat felt.

The sun had fully emerged by the time Cat left the nursery, the sharp frost melting into crystal drops under its rays. She wouldn’t be going back, unless Alison had a sense-of-humour transplant. She was no longer welcome, and therefore no longer employed.

‘Oh, well,’ she said to the small puppy who, now free from her handbag cage, bounced along the pavement at Cat’s feet, sniffing the grass verges, straining at her short leash. ‘At least we escaped with our lives. At one point I wasn’t so sure, were you?’

Disco yipped in response and Cat changed course, walking along the edge of Fairview Park, running her hands along the black railings. She still couldn’t get over how idyllic her new home was. She had the beach, the park, and wide, quiet roads that demanded strolling rather than hurrying. Fairview wasn’t large – it perched on the sea edge of the south-coast town of Fairhaven – and Cat was already getting to know the area’s different charms. In Fairview Park she felt as if she could be anywhere. The wide expanse of verdant grass criss-crossed with paths, the oval pond and the Pavilion café were sheltered from the surrounding Georgian terraces and the sound of the sea, only two roads away, by tall evergreens.

At this time of the morning it was busy with dog walkers and couples strolling in the spring sunshine. Disco wasn’t old enough to walk for long periods yet, her short legs getting tired easily, even though the rest of her seemed to have endless energy. The puppy stopped, sniffing enthusiastically at the base of one of the railings, and Cat stopped to let her – there was nowhere she needed to be.

She had already begun to recognize a few of the park’s regular visitors, and she could see Mr Jasper bustling close to the trees, head down, as if he’d just put up one of his protest signs and didn’t want to be spotted by any of the dog owners he despised. Cat felt her shoulders tense; she’d had enough of dog haters for one day and, while Alison was within her rights to protest about dogs in her nursery, Cat couldn’t understand how Mr Jasper could ever think that getting rid of dogs from the park was a possibility.

A tennis ball landed heavily inside the railings, and Disco yapped loudly as a glossy border collie raced up to find it. The larger dog stuck its shiny black nose through the bars to greet Disco. Cat crouched and stroked the dog’s muzzle, then looked up to see someone watching her. The man was tall, with broad shoulders and a mass of dark brown, untamed hair. He had sharp, handsome features, and even from a distance Cat could feel the weight of his stare. His hands were shoved deep in the pockets of a leather jacket, the collar turned up against the cold.

The man continued to look steadily at her, not the dog – which she presumed was his – and Cat realized she was holding her breath.

Then Disco barked, sank her teeth into the sleeve of Cat’s purple jacket, and pulled. ‘Sorry, Disco,’ she whispered. She carefully extracted the puppy’s jaw, and when she looked up the man was striding away from her. He whistled, and the collie picked up the tennis ball and raced after him. Cat watched him go. ‘Was that weird, puppy, or was that me making something out of nothing?’ Disco wagged her tail. ‘That’s what I thought.’

She was still thinking about the strange near-encounter when they turned into her road.

Primrose Terrace was an elegant crescent moon of tall, stately town houses, some in better repair than others, but all with their own charm. Each of the houses was painted a different pastel colour, their large front doors raised up from the pavement, reached by three wide front steps. The grass verges were peppered with primroses in the spring, and old-style street lamps made Cat feel she was in a Dickens adaptation whenever there was a hint of fog.

She’d moved from nearby Brighton just after Christmas to be closer to her friend Polly, further from the well-meaning prying of her parents, and to start as assistant at the nursery. Well, that had been short and not at all sweet, and Cat was suddenly jobless, directionless and desperate not to have to ask Joe for an extension on her rent so soon after she’d moved in. She tried not to let panic rise up inside her like champagne bubbles after the cork has been popped. She lived with Polly and Joe at number nine, and Elsie Willows, Chalky and Disco were at number ten; the street numbers running concurrently rather than odds and evens. Despite being smaller than many of the other houses, without the customary attic conversion, number ten Primrose Terrace was one of the prettiest. It was pale blue with gleaming white window frames emphasizing the large sash windows, the front door was pillar-box red and Elsie had placed pots of budding hydrangeas at the edges of the steps.

Cat let Disco prance up ahead of her, then rang the bell. It took a long time for the door to open, and when Elsie stood in the doorway, leaning on a crutch, her short white bob, cardigan and long skirt as neatly presented as her house, Cat felt her cheeks redden.

‘It didn’t go as well as you’d hoped, then?’ Elsie said, looking at Cat’s face before opening the door wide and ushering Cat in, hobbling after her into the airy living room.

Cat let Disco off the leash, and the puppy bounded to the basket under the window, where Chalky, Elsie’s older miniature schnauzer, was having a mid-morning nap. Disco nuzzled Chalky’s face, yipped and picked up a heavily chewed cuddly pig, then stood expectantly in front of the older dog. Chalky lifted his head, looked balefully at the puppy from under tufty eyebrows, and closed his eyes. Cat laughed, but Elsie was watching her expectantly.

‘No,’ Cat sighed, her smile fading. ‘It was even more disastrous than my worst-case scenarios.’

‘I told you that Alison wouldn’t stand for it.’

‘I had hoped she would come round to my way of thinking.’

‘That, Catherine, is a triumph of optimism over common sense, and I’m being kind.’

Cat stroked Chalky and ruffled Disco’s fur. Elsie lowered herself slowly into an armchair.

‘I didn’t want Disco in the house while you went for your check-up,’ Cat said. ‘Puppies get lonely, and then they get disruptive.’ Just like me, she thought. ‘I was going to see what mood Alison was in and then, at break time, bring Disco out to meet the children.’

‘But you didn’t get that far?’

Cat shook her head.

‘You know what Alison’s like,’ Elsie said, ‘and you know that dogs are her pet hate – no pun intended. She’s probably more upset that you actively went against her wishes, rather than for any disruption you – and my dog – may have caused. But I am sorry, because you were doing a favour for me.’

‘How was the check-up? I’m surprised you’re back already.’

‘Oh, it was fine.’ Elsie waved her hand dismissively. ‘The knee’s healing, but slowly. I have to stay off it as much as I can for another few weeks. Nothing I didn’t know already. What’s the damage to you? Suspended? Cut in wages?’

‘Fired,’ Cat said. ‘No second chances, no room for manoeuvre. Do you want some tea?’

She left Elsie gawping in the living room and busied herself in the kitchen, making tea and finding chocolate biscuits. Her insides felt hollow with panic, but already, talking it through with Elsie, she was beginning to feel better. It had only taken four days for Cat to become friends with her neighbour once she’d moved to Primrose Terrace, and what Elsie didn’t know about Fairview wasn’t worth knowing. She’d gone into hospital for a long-awaited knee operation at the end of February, and Cat was helping out, taking Disco and Chalky for walks when she could, cooking for her sometimes, keeping her company.

‘I am so sorry, Cat,’ Elsie said when she returned with the tray. ‘I didn’t think she’d go that far.’

Disco was on the sofa, performing a thorough hunt for any treasure that might be hidden between the cushions. Cat poured the tea and scooped the puppy onto her lap. Disco wriggled, licked Cat’s hand and settled down; a warm, breathing comfort blanket.

‘She was furious,’ Cat said. ‘It was a stupid idea, I know. But I just thought that once she’d met Disco she’d realize how wonderful dogs can be. I mean, how could anyone be annoyed at this little thing?’

‘Not everyone loves dogs, and some people actively dislike them. They can be smelly and messy and very badly behaved.’

‘Yes, but look.’ Disco was breathing softly, her small ears flopped over her eyes, her head resting on her front paws.

‘You don’t have to convince me,’ Elsie said, ‘but I don’t think you’ll be able to convince Alison either. Stop worrying about her – what’s done is done. You have to focus on yourself, and what you’re going to do now.’

Cat stared out of the window, watching as the man from a few doors down walked past, wetsuit on, a surfboard under his arm. Cat thought it must be pretty cold in the water today, despite the sun. She stirred her tea.

‘Cat?’ Elsie prompted.

‘Sorry, what?’

‘What are you going to do now that you have no job?’

Cat saw the challenge in the older woman’s eyes and knew that she wouldn’t get away with feeling sorry for herself. ‘I have no idea,’ she said. She stared at her hands and noticed that the varnish on one of her nails, the one that was orange like a tangerine, had started to peel.

‘What about your old nursery? Would they have you back?’ Elsie wouldn’t give up, that was one of the great things about her. Solutions must be found and agreed on, in this case before the sun would be allowed to set on them.

Cat thought of the tiny nursery on a sloping hill overlooking the Brighton seafront. It had been energetic and spontaneous, and her ex-boyfriend Daniel, a teacher, had recommended her to the owners because of her creativity. It had been all the things that Alison’s was not, and with its hippy attitude probably not a typical nursery. But Cat didn’t want to go backwards.

‘Yes, they would,’ she said. ‘But I moved here because I wanted to try a new view and new scenery and new people. I like Primrose Terrace, and I love living with Polly. I need to find something here.’

‘Right.’ Elsie stroked Disco’s fur. The puppy had transferred herself from Cat’s lap to Elsie’s and then conked out. ‘You’re very spirited,’ Elsie said. ‘You could set something up yourself, if that was a more appealing idea than shop work or waitressing in the short term.’

Cat ran a hand back through her short hair. ‘I don’t have the patience for waitressing. And I don’t have my mum’s artistic talent so I can’t do greeting cards, or knitting, or making hats.’

‘What can you do?’ Elsie waved her hand away when Cat gave her a sharp look. ‘I don’t mean it like that – I know you’ve got a drama degree and that you’re qualified as a nursery assistant, but what can you do? What do you enjoy? What about Fairhaven theatre? I’m sure they’re looking for volunteers, even if it’s just front of house.’

Cat laid her head against the sofa. ‘But I need to pay rent, and the problem with theatres is they never have any money. I could volunteer, but it would be years – maybe decades – before there was the possibility of paid work.’

‘So what else do you enjoy?’

‘Long baths, cooking – sometimes – fresh air, walking on the beach. I’m interested in people.’ She was beginning to run out of enthusiasm. The initial shock had worn off, and now all she wanted to do was to climb into one of those long baths and hide from her own stupidity.

‘That sounds like an online dating profile, and not a very original one.’

‘I can’t help it if I have the most boring CV,’ Cat said. ‘Fairly OK at most things, not exceptional at anything, good with pretending and children and animals – except that animals are Polly’s thing.’

‘Just because Polly’s training to be a veterinary nurse doesn’t mean you can’t. No misery, young lady. And it’s not a boring CV. You’ve had a blow – almost entirely of your own making – but a blow nonetheless. You’re bright and enthusiastic, you could do pretty much anything you put your mind to. What would you, Cat Palmer, like to do with your life? Take this as an opportunity.’

Elsie sat forward and poured more tea. At the movement Disco sat up, her eyes alert, then jumped to her feet and knocked Elsie’s arm, causing her to pour tea over the remaining biscuits.

‘Rascal,’ Elsie chided gently.

‘But still adorable,’ Cat said. ‘More than anything, I’d like to spend time with Disco. I’d like to bury my head in her salt-and-pepper fur, take her for walks and watch TV with her on my lap. I could do that for the next few days at least, couldn’t I?’

‘You know you can borrow Disco any time you want. But I thought Joe wouldn’t let you have a dog in the house?’ Elsie frowned.

‘No,’ Cat said quietly, unexpelled emotion rising in her throat. ‘No, he won’t let me. He’s got a cat, so no dogs allowed, apparently. I’m sure if we found the right one they’d get along fine, but he’s adamant.’

‘He’s always seemed like a very pleasant young man to me, and I know people can be sensitive about their pets – often rightly – but I’m surprised he won’t let you have a dog.’

‘Sometimes he’s nice, but most of the time he’s a grumpy sod. But I love living with Polly, and I love being here, on Primrose Terrace, and I want to stay.’

‘Oh, chin up, don’t get all teary.’

‘I’m not.’ Cat swallowed and blinked. ‘It just seems like when one thing goes wrong, it magnifies all the other little niggles into giant, immovable barriers.’ Her voice wavered at the end.

‘That’s why you need to be proactive. Keep moving forward, and have another biscuit.’

Cat looked at the plate, now swimming in tea. She shrugged and popped one in her mouth before it covered her hand in chocolate. ‘At least I can see Disco and Chalky, and I’ll still take them out twice a day while you’re getting back on your feet.’

‘That’s the spirit!’

‘Lots of spring sunshine and your two perfect pooches is exactly what I need while I’m working out a plan.’ Cat clicked her fingers and Disco bounced across the carpet and started licking her wrist. Cat laughed as the dog’s whiskers tickled her hand.

‘You might be right.’ Elsie drummed her fingers against her lips, her gaze fixed on the thick verge of grass outside the window, where the primroses were just starting to peek through. ‘I think, Cat, that you may have come up with your own perfect solution.’

Chapter 2

‘Dog walking? As a job?’

‘Yes, Polly. Taking other people’s dogs for walks. It’s a growing market – people who work all day, busy families, people like Elsie who might be temporarily unable to take their pets out. I bet there are loads of dog-owners out there who don’t even know it’s an option. Now it will be, because of me.’

They were sitting on the over-squashy, faded blue sofas in the living room of number nine Primrose Terrace, sharing a bottle of wine. Polly had come back late from Fairview vet’s, where she was doing the work placement for her veterinary nursing degree, and had changed into blue cotton pyjamas, her bare feet up on the coffee table.

‘And you’re sure Alison won’t have you back at the nursery, even if you grovel?’

‘I wouldn’t go back, even if she grovelled. I don’t think it’s the right job for me, not in a conventional nursery, anyway. Elsie’s right, this is perfect. Between the beach and the park this must be a prime doggy neighbourhood, and I can’t think of anything I’d like more than spending time walking other people’s dogs.’

Polly scrutinized her, her wide blue eyes unblinking in a way that Cat had almost got used to, despite the effect, along with her long blonde hair, being a bit Midwich Cuckoos. ‘I’m sure you can do it,’ she said slowly, ‘but there are lots of things to consider. Lots. How much you’ll charge, how many dogs you can walk at a time. Do the owners let their dogs have treats? If so, what kind and how often? Will you pick them all up from their houses? Will they get on with each other? And think of all the poo you’ll have to pick up. It won’t be a walk in the park.’

‘Ha ha.’

‘What, I – oh!’ Polly grinned. ‘It’s true though. I know you’ll think things through, but you can be…’

‘Impulsive, spontaneous?’

‘Excitable, a bit like a dog.’

Cat threw a cushion at her. ‘I get that I need to think about it like a business, but I’m excited, Pol. As excited as I was about moving here, finally getting to live with you. I think I can do this, and at the very least I can test the water, see if anyone nearby would be interested in a dog walker – other than Elsie, of course.’

‘You won’t charge her, will you?’

‘I said I wouldn’t, but she insists on it. She’ll be my first client and I’ll give her a special OAP rate.’ Cat sipped her wine and beamed, feeling a swell of something like accomplishment, even though all they’d really done was come up with an idea, and the hard work was all ahead of her.

‘Well, I think it’s pretty inventive,’ Polly said. ‘Inspirational, almost.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. You may not have intended to leave your job today—’

‘Get booted out, you mean?’

‘But,’ Polly continued, holding up a finger, ‘this could be better. And you’ll have a nearly-trained veterinary nurse on hand, should anything go hideously wrong.’

‘What’s going to go hideously wrong?’ Joe sloped into the room, sat next to Polly and poured himself a glass of red wine. He was in his usual work outfit of jeans and a hoody, the current one navy with an orange goldfish on the front, his short hair sticking up in unruly tufts as if his day had involved a lot of head scratching.

‘There’s a tsunami heading towards Fairview beach. Think of the carnage it’s going to cause.’

Joe sat up, almost spilling his wine. ‘What? Who said anything about a tsunami?’

‘Calm down,’ Polly said, pushing gently against his chest. ‘Cat was having you on. No tsunami.’

‘Right.’ Joe glared at Cat and she grinned. Joe and Polly could almost be twins. They were both blonde haired and blue eyed, Polly’s frame almost as slender as a boy’s, but Joe’s blond was more strawberry than ash, and Cat had never found him unnerving, only annoying. ‘So what’s going to go wrong?’ he asked.

‘Cat’s new business venture – except it’s not, but if it does, then I’ll be on hand.’

‘To offer moral support?’ Joe noticed Polly’s feet up on the coffee table, and gently nudged them onto the floor.

‘To provide medical assistance.’

‘Are we going back to the tsunami? Why would you need medical assistance? Do your techniques work on people as well as animals?’ Joe rubbed his forehead.

‘Not for the people, silly,’ Polly said, ‘for the dogs.’

‘Dogs?’ Joe sat up again, this time keeping careful control of his wine. ‘What dogs?’ There was an edge of panic in his voice that Cat might have found amusing, except that it was his aversion to dogs that was stopping her from having one of her own at Primrose Terrace.

‘All dogs.’ Cat threw her arms up. ‘I’m going to walk the dogs of Fairview. I’m going to look after them all, from Chihuahuas to Great Danes, give them exercise and love and the freedom they deserve, and I’m going to get paid for it!’

Joe took a sip of wine, his movements slow and measured. Cat had, in the two months she’d been living there, discovered this meant he was formulating an argument, considering his point carefully before he expressed it. Spontaneity was not Joe’s thing. Cat was expecting a carefully crafted attack on all things canine. It didn’t come.

‘So your time at the nursery,’ he said softly, ‘it’s…come to an end?’

‘How did you know?’

‘I didn’t. But…it seemed slightly inevitable.’

‘Why?’

Joe gave a quick smile. ‘Because every time I asked about your day, you gave me an elaborate description of all the things you wished you’d been doing with the children – some of which would have got you sued, by the way – because the real answer was too boring to talk about. I guessed that you weren’t that happy there. Sorry if I’ve got the wrong end of the stick.’

‘Stick,’ Polly said. ‘Ha ha!’

‘What?’

‘Y’know, dog walking, stick…we’re collecting dog puns.’

‘Not intentionally,’ Cat said. ‘But you’re right, I didn’t last at the nursery.’

Since she’d been living there, it had become an evening ritual. Cat would tell Joe all the things she wished they’d been doing at the nursery, and Joe, a freelance illustrator, would go on about how wonderfully cooperative his clients were to begin with, and how it would take him half a day to lovingly create a drawing of a single person, only to be told by the client that they looked too angry, or too insipid, or too posh. Joe was currently working on websites, marketing and branding for small companies and, at the moment, a local magazine that was probably the cause of the hair pulling.

‘Whose decision?’ Joe asked.

‘What?’

‘Did you jump, or were you pushed?’

The room fell into silence, thoughts drifting up towards the high ceiling as Cat tried to conjure up the best way of explaining what had happened. She didn’t need to.

‘Cat took Disco to the nursery in her handbag, and she escaped during music time. It gave the children more excitement than Miss Knickers-too-tight could handle.’ Polly poured more wine, put her feet back on the table and took them off again at Joe’s instant glare.

‘You took a puppy into a nursery in a handbag?’ He narrowed his eyes.

Cat nodded.

‘And expected chaos not to rain down upon you?’

‘I was hopeful.’

‘You were deluded. No wonder she fired you.’

Cat pressed her lips together and gave a small nod. ‘Maybe. But look where it’s led me.’

‘What, to a bottle of wine and some pie-in-the-sky idea about becoming the local Dr Dolittle?’

‘Hey!’

‘Joe,’ Polly chided, ‘that’s not fair. If Cat sets her mind to it, then I think she can do it.’

‘Well, I’m looking forward to seeing how it turns out.’ He raised his glass, and Polly and Cat did the same, though Cat could see amusement glimmering behind Joe’s serious expression. His rather large ginger cat, Shed, took the opportunity to stalk into the room, shaking out his back feet in turn as if discarding distasteful footwear, and positioned himself on the coffee table. He nudged the bottle of wine close to the edge with his tail.

‘How come Shed’s allowed on the table and not my feet?’ Polly asked. This was not a new argument, and Shed gave her a look that said just that: I’m allowed, you’re not. Get over it.

Joe shrugged. ‘It’s harder to get him to behave than you.’

‘So your battles are based on the effort it takes to achieve the required results? That’s a hopeless way to live your life, Joey.’

‘Yeah, well. I’m older than you are.’

‘But not wiser.’

‘It’s my lease, so I get to make the decisions.’

‘I’m paying the same amount of rent.’

‘Do you always have to be so argumentative?’

‘Only when I’m standing up for my rights.’ Polly crossed her arms.

‘Your rights to have your feet on the table?’

‘I had a shower when I got in, so they’re perfectly clean. Cleaner than Shed’s, I bet. And he’s got his bum on the table.’

Joe looked sideways at his sister. ‘Fair point. Come on, Shed.’

He prodded Shed’s back, and the cat glared at him and stepped onto his knee, kneading his paws into Joe’s jeans.

‘Ahhh – aaaaaaaaaah, not there, Shed!’ Joe tried to move the cat but he refused to budge, and Cat hid her laughter behind her glass. She made the mistake of catching Polly’s eye, and they both shook silently while Joe tried to rescue his private parts. Small portions of near-harmless revenge were very satisfying, even when they came from an unlikely source.

The bottle of wine was empty, Cat’s eyes were blinking sleepily and Joe had long since disappeared to do more work or fume, silently, behind his office door. Polly switched off the television and drummed her fingers on the table.

Cat sat up. ‘What?’

‘He’s not always like that, you know.’

‘Who, Shed?’ Shed was asleep in Joe’s place on the sofa, a big orange fuzz, his face buried under his tail. Cat imagined he was secretly plotting ways to get her into trouble, playing the perfect pet against her role of irritating new housemate.

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