‘It’s good to see you, Lottie,’ said Joe, pulling out a chair and joining her.
‘Um. I, um …’ She had no idea how to respond. She put her hands on her thighs and took a deep breath. Her initial bewilderment was ebbing away, and now a tsunami of new emotions was threatening to breach her carefully built defences.
‘What have you been up to?’ he asked. His casual attitude irritated her.
‘Joe, whilst I’d love to chat,’and ask you why you buggered off to America and deleted me from your life, she added in her head, ‘I have a house covered in muddy pawprints, and hordes of guests arriving in …’ she checked the clock, ‘holy crap! Three hours. And your ruddy dog is hiding behind a bucket in the utility room!’
‘Not my dog,’ said Joe, unzipping his coat. If he was expecting a cup of tea he could think again.
‘What?’
‘The dog.’ Joe pointed at the muddy face peering at them from the shadows. ‘He’s not mine.’
‘Then why the hell were you chasing after him?’
‘He was reported as a stray so I was trying to catchhim.’ Perhaps this made sense to Joe – only, to any sane person, it didn’t.
Lottie rubbed her temples. Her brain actually hurt. ‘Right. Shall we catch him now and you can take him to the rescue or wherever it was you were taking him?’
‘He’s staying with me.’
‘Staying with you?’ Joe lived in America.
‘I’ve moved back. I’m the new vet. I’m renting Mr Bundy’s old place in Dumbleford for now. There’s only a shower there. Can we give the dog a bath here first? Then I’ll give you a hand cleaning the floors.’
Too. Much. Information. Lottie realised she had been shaking her head. New vet? There was no vet in the village; they had to go to Stow-on-the-Wold for the nearest surgery. Mr Bundy had been dead about five years and his home had changed hands twice in that time, but she knew the little cottage Joe was referring to well. She had far too many questions and a million concerns, so instead she focused on the issues in hand – the dog and the floor. She really wished she had a better solution than Joe’s, but her mind was overloaded. And as she looked at the floor, she knew she could do with some help.
‘Okay, but you’re cleaning the bath afterwards too.’
‘Of course.’ He gave a broad smile. ‘It really is good to see you again, Lottie,’ he said, pausing to study her. She wanted to say the same but she couldn’t, hand on heart, say it with conviction. Was it good to see him? She didn’t know. She was still in free fall waiting to hit the ground. There was much she wanted to ask, but it was all a muddle in her head. So instead she looked away and busied herself with trying to get the dog out of the utility.
After they managed to corner it, they quickly discovered the dog wasn’t used to being bathed. It took both of them hanging on tight to keep him in the tub and wash him with the Duchess’s pet shampoo and conditioner. It was surreal being in such a small space with Joe, who had been a world away for such a long time.
Lottie kept her focus on the little dog and was amazed to discover that, under all the mud, he was predominantly white, with a number of tan-coloured patches and a whiskery chin.
‘He’s a proper Heinz fifty-seven,’ said Lottie, giving the dog a rub over with an old towel whilst Joe washed down the bath and the mud-splattered bathroom.
‘Jack Russell cross. Probably a bit of bichon frise or poodle in the mix to explain the soft coat and longer legs.’
Lottie paused in her towel drying. ‘Joe, why have you come back? Why now?’
The dog saw his chance to escape and scurried out of the towel and through the open bathroom door. Lottie let him go.
Joe turned and sat on the edge of the bath, his head bent down. His hair was still wayward, even though it was cut short – it had always been that way, and Lottie remembered that when they were children his mother had despaired at how it stuck up. He lifted his head and gave her a wonky smile. ‘It just felt like the right time.’
‘The right time for what?’ Lottie tried hard not to frown.
‘To come home.’
Lottie opened her mouth to speak but a great crash from the kitchen had the dog barking and them both hurtling downstairs. They passed Great Uncle Bernard, who was heading down on the stairlift wearing hisstandard-issue old man’s burgundy cardigan with leather buttons.
‘Is that Joe? By Lord!’ bellowed Bernard.
‘Hiya Mr Collins,’ Joe called back up, jumping the last few steps and landing with a thud.
Lottie skidded into the kitchen, coming to an abrupt halt and surveying the devastation. It appeared that the cat had tried to jump onto the top of the kitchen cupboards where the old pots and pans were kept and, in her haste, had knocked them onto the worktop; they were now scattered about the kitchen. But the bigger issue was that the large saucepan that was cooling on the worktop had also been sent crashing to the floor. Tomato soup was now liberally splattered everywhere. It looked like a cheap horror movie set. The Duchess was standing in the middle of a sea of tomato. She yowled in protest and flicked a tomato-sodden paw in disgust. The little dog, who was streaked in red like a zombie hound, made a run for it. Joe scooped him up as he tried to dive through his legs.
‘Oh Duchess!’ said Lottie, paddling through the soup to retrieve the cat. Lottie pointed a finger back at Joe – ‘I blame you for this!’ – but he was holding up the scruffy dog and hiding his laughing face behind it. Something passed between them – whether it was the ridiculousness of the moment, or their shared history, she wasn’t sure. Joe was laughing hard and it was a sound which took her back to happy times: football on the green; scrumping apples; catching minnows in the stream behind the pub.
