‘Eventually we reconciled it wasn’t meant to be. We had each other, so…’ I trail off.
‘We make all these plans but life seems to love derailing them, right?’
‘You’re going to get your family back, Angus.’
He looks at me, affection in his eyes. ‘How about you, Holly? What’s in it for you? You have nothing better to do than hang out with me and Lauren?’
‘Nope. Tragic isn’t it?’ Finally, we laugh, out of hopelessness more than anything else.
‘If anyone told me I’d be forty-four, a widow, no children, and hanging out with a man called Angus…’ I grab a piece of kitchen roll and wipe my eyes.
‘I can’t imagine how much you miss him,’ Angus says, ‘but you’re so strong, Holly.’
It’s hard to receive his compliment. If he knew how empty I feel and how I dread the long weekends, if he knew that I’d rather do anythingthan be at home alone, without Jamie, he wouldn’t think me strong. It’s like I’ve been trapped in a maze ever since he died, going down the same old path and never finding a way out. And I can’t help thinking Angus and Lauren are going to help me find a way out.
‘I missus. But I don’t want to throw my life away either,’ I tell him, feeling it this time. ‘Wanting to help Lauren, and being with you, it’s not entirely selfless, you know. I need you too.’
‘We’re in this together,’ he says, before his mobile rings. ‘It’s Nina.’
‘Take it.’
As he talks to Nina next door, I clear the plates. When he hangs up, he returns to the kitchen. ‘Nina has an idea,’ he says, ‘I think it’s worth a go.’
13
‘I don’t want to,’ Lauren says, veering away from me when I offer her Dolly’s lead. Dolly, named after Nina’s favourite singer, Dolly Parton, is Nina’s pug, in need of a daily walk as much as us. Last Sunday, when Nina had called Angus to see if he could look after Dolly the following weekend, and heard about our failed attempt at swimming, she’d suggested we see if Lauren would like to walk Dolly with us. If she enjoyed it, she could offer her a regular, paid dog-walking job as Nina was becoming busier in the weekrunning her cooking workshops for adults with complex mental health needs, in sheltered accommodation across London. Anyway, her idea made sense to Angus and me. Besides, who doesn’t love dogs?
‘I don’t like dogs,’ Lauren mumbles, ‘well, not this one.’
‘How can you not love Dolly, she’s so pretty?’ Angus says as she deposits a treat for us by the tennis courts in Ravenscourt Park. It’s early August, the summer holidays, so both courts are being used, and the park is crowded.
‘Seeing as you love dogs so much,’ I say, handing Angus a small black bag, nudging Lauren as we watch him walk over to the scene of the crime.
As we carry on walking through the park, I tell Lauren I thought she liked dogs. ‘I don’t mind them. But Dolly looks like a piglet.’ Lauren gestures to a Staffordshire Bull Terrier approaching us. ‘He ain’t too bad,’ she says, before he sniffs Dolly’s backside and tries to mount her.
‘Men,’ Angus says, shooing the dog away, ‘only after one thing.’
‘Always punching above their weight too,’ I say. ‘Dolly’s far too pretty for him.’
The same dog returns and tries again.
‘And theyneverget the message,’ Lauren finishes.
We walk past children playing in the paddling pool area. One child is crying inconsolably because she has dropped her ice cream. I stand, transfixed, watching as her mother comforts her, stroking her back, giving her a kiss. ‘One day, that will be us,’ Jamie had said to me, when we’d walked around the park, newly-marrieds, watching parents with their children. Jamie had always wanted a dog too, but we didn’t feel it fair when we both worked. We said the moment we retired we’d find a rescue dog. ‘One day, Holly, we’ll have our baby girl and boy, and a mongrel called Bruno.’
‘You coming, Holly?’ Angus calls. I shake the memory away, catching them up. Angus is now showing Lauren the fake crocodile, half submerged in the sand, close to the pool, a few children circling it and giggling. One pokes it in the eye before running away. It does look pretty real, lying deathly still, its stare sinister. ‘I have very nearly been eaten by a crocodile four times,’ claims Angus.
‘Four times?’ I shake my head. ‘Don’t believe you.’
‘You can ask Sophie.’
‘That’s convenient, given she’s not here, and I’m not about to call her.’
‘It’s true,’ he swears.
‘Nearly getting eaten once is foolish, four times is asking for it,’ I reprimand, ‘even if you’re Bear Grylls.’
‘You can’t have been tasty,’ Lauren says, deadpan, making us laugh again.
