Chapter Twenty

      When Kerry arrives at the redbrick terraced house, James greets her with a brief smile and his mobile jammed to his ear.

      ‘I manage to run things when you’re not there,’ he barks, beckoning her into the hallway. Sorry, he mouths with a broad shouldered shrug, turning to march into the kitchen and motioning for Kerry to follow as he continues his conversation. He jabs at a chair, indicating that she should sit. She does so, like an obedient hound, wondering if she might also be offered a biscuit.

      As Kerry waits for him to finish, feeling a little stranded, she takes in the undeniable maleness of the sparse and functional room. These days, whilst she no longer registers the clutter in friends’ houses (it’s as unremarkable as chairs or carpeting), she never fails to register the absence of it. No children live here, that’s for sure. And that’s good, she decides, having wondered how she’d feel if a little boy or girl were being forced to part with their beloved pet.

      ‘So, there’s a queue,’ James barks into his phone. ‘I’d hazard a guess that they’re customers, Luke. I’d say that’s good. Yes, I know it’s hard to keep up with the orders but that’s the whole point, isn’t it? If they wanted quick they’d buy a pre-packaged sandwich in the newsagent’s …’ He glances at Kerry with another apologetic grimace and pushes back his slightly untidy light brown hair. Grey eyes, Kerry notes: kind eyes that crinkle appealingly, despite his current ill-humour. He’s a little older than her, she guesses – maybe early-to-mid forties. ‘I know Ben’s your friend,’ he goes on, ‘but we’re not hiring now, okay? No … no. Well, we’ll just have to manage, Luke. Look, I can’t discuss this right now.’

      There’s a movement in the kitchen doorway, and Kerry turns to see a large, shaggy-haired, timid-looking black and white dog standing there. He is observing her with an amber-eyed gaze.

      So this is Buddy. Part bearded collie, mostly unknown, according to James when she’d called again for more information, feeling unsatisfied by their initial exchange. Six years old, likes to run, play, fetch sticks and balls and be made a fuss of. Has been snipped, as James put it, so uninterested in passing females. (This relieved Kerry; she had been trying to erase the mental image of that dog from the book getting frisky with the old lady in the winged chair).

      ‘Hello, Buddy,’ she says gently, getting up to greet him as his owner goes on, apparently reminding the person on the phone to add basil to a greengrocer’s order. Buddy eyes Kerry nervously as if he’s just arrived at a party and is unsure about walking in.

      ‘Hey, boy,’ she says, his cue to turn and quickly pad away. ‘Buddy?’ she calls ineffectually into the hallway, but he fails to reappear.

      ‘Sorry about that.’ James has finished the call and shakes her hand rather formally.

      ‘That’s okay.’ She smiles.

      ‘I see you’ve met him.’ He glances over her shoulder into the hallway.

      ‘Yes, he seems a bit shy actually.’

      ‘Oh, he’ll be fine. Hang on a minute …’ He disappears into another room, returning with Buddy trotting timidly at his ankles looking up at James, as if fully aware that Kerry isn’t some random woman who has happened to drop by, but the person who’s come to take him away – forever.

      ‘Oh, he’s lovely,’ Kerry says, keeping her distance in case she startles him again.

      ‘Yes, he’s great. Very affectionate as I said on the phone …’

      ‘I have to admit, I don’t know anything about dogs, apart from what I’ve picked up from books and the internet. To be honest, most of it seems to be about the millions of things that can go wrong …’

      ‘Well, we’ve never had any problems,’ James says quickly as Buddy settles into a curled up position, not just at, but actually on his feet.

      There’s an awkward pause which Kerry feels compelled to fill. ‘Er … how often d’you walk him?’ she asks.

      ‘Couple of times a day. I do a quick walk first thing, then another early afternoon … apart from that, he’ll potter about quite happily in the garden. He’s pretty low-maintenance really. You’ll hardly know he’s there.’

      Another silence. Ask me if I have a garden then, Kerry muses. Say something to show you actually care where he’s going, and what his life will be like.

      ‘And he’s never aggressive?’ she asks. ‘There’s no biting or snapping or anything? I’m sure he’ll be fine but I have to be sure. You see, I have two young children and I know some dogs can be weird around kids, especially if they’re not used to them.’ She doesn’t know that at all; she’s just saying whatever pops into her head.

      ‘No, he’s fine with children, and he’s never shown any aggression.’

      ‘And he’s trained and everything?’ Now Kerry feels as if she’s interviewing him.

      ‘Oh, yes,’ James says quickly.

      ‘I mean in the doing-his-business sense.’

      ‘He’s fine with all that. No problem at all.’

      Kerry frowns. It doesn’t seem right, managing the handover in such a cold-hearted manner. But then, maybe James is desperately upset, and worried he’ll lose it if there’s a long, drawn-out goodbye. Perhaps, she decides, this chilliness is his way of coping.

      ‘He seems a bit nervous,’ she observes.

      James bends down, ruffling behind Buddy’s soft, floppy ears. ‘He’s fine, aren’t you, boy? So how are you taking him? D’you have a car?’

      ‘No, I’d rather walk him home, it’s only fifteen minutes away. I thought it’d give us the chance to get to know each other.’

      ‘Right.’ James checks his watch. All right, all right, we’re going, Kerry thinks with a prickle of irritation. ‘If you give me your address,’ he adds, ‘I can drop off his basket, his food and everything later. All his info’s in there.’ He indicates a cardboard folder on the kitchen table labelled ‘Buddy’. ‘Veterinary records, vaccinations, pet insurance …’

      ‘MOT?’

      ‘Sorry?’

      ‘Has he been MOT’d?’ Kerry asks with a bemused smile. ‘I’m sorry, James. This feels a bit like handing over a car. Are there any quirks I should know about? Is he a good runner?’

      ‘Oh,’ James emits a dry laugh. ‘He’s certainly that.’

      ‘And I take it that’s his fuel.’ She indicates the big bag of chicken and vegetables in dry biscuit form on the table.

      ‘Yep, he has a cup in the morning and another for dinner …’

      ‘Well, um … I suppose we’ll be going then. You’ve got my number in case you think of anything else I should know …’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Here’s my address.’ She takes a scrap of paper and pen from her bag and scribbles it quickly. Looking down at Buddy, who is gazing mournfully up at her from his curled up position on James’s feet, Kerry feels a rush of affection for this unwanted pet. ‘Come on then, Buddy,’ she says softly. Buddy glances at his ex-owner,