Romantic Comedy Box Set (Helen Grey Series Books 1 & 2) Page 2

  Quick-drying, my arse! Oh well, I would have to deal with that later. I didn’t have time to take it off again now, otherwise I would be late for my challenge of the day, and last night, in the depths of my sleep, I’d resolved to take it all seriously.

  I padded barefoot into the kitchen and switched on the kettle. While waiting for my coffee to brew, I put a slice of bread in the toaster and turned on the radio. Bob Marley’s soulful voice was singing, ‘No woman, no cry, no woman no cry.’ I sang along enthusiastically until someone in the next flat banged on the wall and told me to go away and do something to myself that probably wasn’t even humanly possible.

  After I’d taken a bite of toast, I realized I wasn’t at all hungry, so I wrapped it in tin foil and shoved it into my bag, thinking I would eat it later if I got a bit peckish after my walk.

  Complete with my morning caffeine rush, I retraced my steps back to the bedroom and opened the window, peering out to check the temperature. For once it wasn’t raining or hailing, or anything else that involved vast amounts of water. I thought that was a good sign until I glanced down to the car park just as Clive, my lecherous neighbour, emerged from the entrance to the flats below my window, wearing a ripped T-shirt and paint splattered jeans. His unkempt shoulder-length hair looked like it hadn’t seen a dose of shampoo since the sixties.

  He looked up and waved. ‘All right, gorrrgeous.’ Then he pointed to his mouth and proceeded with his nasty little party trick of removing his denture plate with his tongue and wiggling it around, giving me a bird’s eye view of the single false tooth attached to it. ‘Ha-ha.’ He sauntered off with his jeans so low on his hips, I could see his builder’s bum winking at me.

  ‘Ew.’ I wrinkled up my nose and hurried away from the window, wondering what to wear for a spot of dog walking.

  I pulled on a skirt and jumper and stuffed my feet into knee-length boots. Slinging on my coat, I grabbed my bag and headed off in the direction of the Canine Rescue Centre.

  The day was crisp but bright with just a smattering of cloud, and the sunshine gave me an unexpected boost, which I’d lost since my break-up with Justin.

  I arrived at the centre, red-faced and out of breath. The reception desk was empty, but an elderly man leaned on the front of the counter, waiting for someone to appear. Boxes were strewn around the floor half opened, as if in the middle of being unpacked.

  ‘Morning, love.’ He doffed his flat cap at me.

  ‘Morning,’ I replied.

  ‘Nice day for it, eh?’

  For what? I wondered. Climbing Everest? World peace? Mass suicide?

  ‘Mmm,’ I mumbled, catching my breath back.

  ‘Done it before, have you, love?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You know, walk the doggies. I’ve been doing it every day since my wife died.’

  ‘Oh, how nice.’ God, that sounded terrible. ‘I mean, not your wife dying, of course.’

  ‘He never misses a day, do you, Eric?’

  I turned to see a middle-aged woman walk behind the desk. She gazed up at him, patting his hand.

  Maybe there was more to this dog-walking lark than met the eye. There certainly seemed to be a bit of romance blossoming here!

  ‘This lady is here for walking the doggies.’ Eric smiled at the receptionist.

  ‘Sorry about the mess. We’ve just extended the office, and we’re still unpacking. It’s much better now, though, there wasn’t room to swing a cat in the old one. Now, have you got a doggy-bag, dear?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you had to bring some food for them.’ Then I remembered the half-eaten breakfast in my bag. ‘I’ve got some toast. Will that do?’

  ‘I meant bags for the poop!’ She gave me a warm smile and handful of plastic bags. ‘Well, you’re both in luck. There are two dogs left for walking today.’

  ‘Who’s left then, pet?’ Eric asked her.

  ‘We’ve got Fang and Pussy. Which one would you like, dear?’ she asked me.

  A sudden vision of a rabid Rottweiler versus a small, cute little puppy came to mind. Was it a trick question? I mean, come on, who was going to choose a dog called Fang over a cute little pooch named Pussy? Stranger still, though, was why anyone would want to call their dog Pussy?

  Eric peered at me, awaiting my decision, while the receptionist stared at me.

  ‘Er…I think I’ll have…Pussy, then, if you don’t mind.’ An uneasy feeling crept over me.

  ‘Okey-dokey, then, dear.’ She nodded, trotting off to collect the dogs.

  A few minutes later, she returned with a black Labrador, flecked with grey around her temples, and a German Shepherd, the size of a small horse. Thank God I’d gone for Pussy, I thought, as the horse-dog licked his lips and eyed me up like an industrial size tin of Pedigree Chum.

  ‘Here you go, Eric.’ She handed him the German Shepherd. He gave her a wave as he disappeared out of the door. ‘It’s OK.’ She passed me the lead for the Labrador. ‘She probably won’t want to walk too far, she’s very arthritic.’

  ‘Come on, then. Nice Pussy.’ I opened the door, not believing that I’d actually uttered the words, ‘nice pussy’ in public.

  The dog was very slow on her feet and trotted beside me, stopping every two minutes to sniff the ground.

  Trot, trot, trot. Sniff, sniff, sniff. At this rate, the ten minute walk to the park would take an hour. I gazed at the 1920s-style houses on either side of the road as Pussy took her time waddling along, smelling the doggy telegraph messages. I studied the manicured gardens and the bay windows and porches and wondered whether I would ever live in this kind of house with my future husband – if I ever found one before I turned into a Zimmer frame-wielding, pension-collecting spinster, of course.

  A few metres ahead of me a nice-looking guy emerged from his front door. Wearing a well-cut, charcoal business suit and carrying a black briefcase, he strode along his path, sweeping a hand through his immaculate hair. When he neared the kerb, he clicked his car keys and a beeping sound emanated from a silver Porsche 911 in front of the house. At the same time, Pussy decided to sniff around the wheel of his car with heightened interest. As I waited for her to finish, I sneaked a look at him sliding into the driver’s seat and straightened myself up, trying to appear casual as I checked him out. Mmm, not bad. This was definitely a good idea of Ayshe’s. He placed his briefcase on the passenger seat just as Pussy decided to arch her back and squat on the pavement. I tugged on the lead slightly, but she gave me a look as if to say ‘I ain’t moving lady!’

  I whispered to myself please let it be a wee, please let it be a wee, groaning inside at the thought that I might have to clear up something larger and smellier in front of Mr. Porsche-driver.

  ‘Pussy!’ I tried to drag her away.

  The driver’s window slid down, and I was sure he was about to say something. Instead, he looked on in horror as Pussy deposited a massive, steaming plop on the pavement, inches away from his car.

  ‘For Christ’s sake get that bloody animal away from my car!’

  Pussy had now finished her business and turned around to sniff it with delight.

  ‘Oh, God!’ I exclaimed, blushing an interesting shade of vermillion.

  I fished a plastic bag out of my pocket to pick up the Mr. Whippy style plop which was now deposited on the pavement in all its glory. Pulling a disgusted face, I put the bag over my hand like a glove and retrieved the offending dollop, turning the bag inside out when I’d finished.

  ‘Dirty old bitch!’ he yelled in our direction as his tyres screeched and the car flew off up the road.

  I wondered how he knew Pussy was a girl, then realized he was talking about me. How insulting! I’m not that bloody old.

  ‘Oi!’ I shouted after him, sticking up my fingers and waving them in a frantic up and down motion.

  A crowd of rubbernecks had gathered, gawping at me open-mouthed and sniggering. Not wanting to lose face, I pretended everything was hunky-dory and, with a
flick of my hair, I dragged Pussy along the path, nonchalantly swinging my bag of plop and plonking it into the nearest bin.

  Pussy’s bowel movement must’ve had the same effect as a weekend at a canine spa snorting Sanatogen, because as soon as we reached the park she had a complete personality change. She zigzagged through the fallen Autumnal leaves, kicking them in the air and chasing them around. After twenty minutes of re-energized action, she insisted on bounding round the park with me struggling to keep up.

  When I found myself back on the path leading out of the park, Pussy spied something in the distance and sprinted off like Linford Christie from the starting blocks, managing to pull the lead out of my hand as she shot off. I ran at warp speed factor one, shouting after her, but she was intent on her mission.

  She seemed to be running towards a man who was strolling along with a pram, unaware of the danger ahead. With a sudden leap, she jumped into the pram. I had a quick flash of terror as I imagined the headlines: ‘Wild dog savages baby in sleepy suburb!’ The man was screaming and shouting at Pussy, trying to get her out of the pram. Huffing and puffing, I finally caught up with them.

  ‘Agh!’ My eyes darted into the pram expecting to see blood and gore.

  Instead, to my surprise, Pussy was sitting on top of the baby, wagging her tail with fervour. She’d squeezed her whole body into the tiny pram and was licking the baby’s chubby little face like there was no tomorrow. The baby – thank God – looked like it was quite enjoying the experience and giggled with delight, its eyes about to pop out on stalks in excitement.

  ‘What were you thinking?’ the man snapped as he managed to half-lift, half-tip Pussy out of the pram.

  ‘I’m so sorry, she’s not my dog. I think she’s a bit over-excited.’

  ‘That is certainly not the word for it!’ He threw me a filthy look as he wiped the dog drool off the baby’s face. ‘Be more careful next time,’ he said, marching off.

  I warned Pussy about her behaviour, but she took no notice and looked around with wild eyes, trying to find some other mischief to get into. Then she decided to change her naughty thoughts and sat down with tail wagging and eyes full of apology.

  ‘Come on.’ I tugged the lead, desperately wanting to get her back to the centre before any more mishaps occurred, but she wouldn’t budge.

  Trying to coax her in my best Barbara Woodhouse voice, she just crinkled up her eyebrows and stared at me with huge, doleful eyes. I crouched down to stroke her soft black fur and that’s when I realized it was all an act. She was just lulling me into a false sense of security and, before I could yell ‘No!’ she was off again.

  She’d caught sight of a squirrel munching on an acorn under a vast oak tree, and she dragged me off towards the nearby woods. This time, however, I was determined to hang on for dear life. As I tried to get up in a hurry, I stumbled and was teetering out of control as she pulled me towards the trees. My feet crunched on the leaves as I staggered to right myself and my arms flailed in the air. Suddenly, the ground dipped beneath me, and I lost my footing. I went over on my ankle, and then before I could regain my balance again, she dragged me down a bank. I fell to the ground with all the grace of a rhino on roller-skates and landed on my back in a patch of slimy mud as little white stars exploded behind my eyeballs.

  An involuntary sound escaped from my lips as the air flew out of my lungs. I lay there, winded for a few minutes, dazed and confused. As I tried to sit up, I was pushed gently back down again by a tall, bald man, in a black cashmere sweater.

  ‘It’s all right, I saw everything. You’ve had a fall.’ He peered down at me. ‘Don’t worry, I’m a doctor. You might have concussion.’ He produced a slim-line torch from his pocket which he shone into my eyes.

  ‘Where’s my…Pussy,’ I slurred.

  ‘Hmm.’ He looked puzzled, glancing over his shoulder at the crowd beginning to form. ‘Confusion and slurred speech, possibly a case of concussion,’ he volunteered to the others, then turned back to me. ‘I need to check you out. Does anything hurt?’ He clicked the torch off and put it in his pocket.

  I tried to sit up again, but he instructed me in a firm voice, ‘No, I need to have a look at you before you get up.’ He put his hands under my neck and gently palpated. ‘Does it hurt here?’ He worked his way along both arms and then up my legs, feeling through the soft suede of my boots.

  ‘Only my ankle.’ I forced a smile, struggling to regain my composure as I ventured a look at his shiny head, which was Bic-razored to death.

  ‘Good job I was having a sneaky cigarette in between patients and saw what happened. OK, everything seems fine, but I think you might have sprained your ankle. My surgery is over there.’ He motioned to a row of Georgian houses on one side of the park. ‘Can you make it if I help you?’

  By then my breathing had returned to normal. ‘I think so.’ I nodded and instantly wished I hadn’t – my head still felt a bit woozy.

  He led me, bedraggled and groggy, the short distance to his surgery. I hobbled along beside him, holding on to steady myself as he steered me up the front steps which were lined with wrought-iron railings. We entered a shiny black door with a semi-circular fanlight above it. Once inside, the pristine whiteness hurt my eyes, and I squinted as he led me past a wooden reception desk and along a corridor. We reached a door with a name-plate that read: DR SAVAGE.

  ‘Right, let’s get these boots off and have a look, shall we?’ He lowered me onto a very firm grey couch.

  As he started unzipping them, I studied him with interest. He was in his early forties with olive skin and the palest green eyes I’d ever seen. He really was rather tasty. I gazed at him for a few moments, then my eyes widened with foreboding as I suddenly remembered my woolly mammoth legs. Why hadn’t I shaved them last night when I’d had the chance? A warm glow crawled up my neck.

  He removed my socks and stepped back in amazement. ‘For a minute I thought you were bleeding.’ He picked up my heel in the palm of his hand, scrutinizing it.

  I lifted my head from the comfort of the couch, realizing he was talking about my rather unique pedicure. I felt myself growing hot and clammy, crackling with shame.

  His eyes wandered up my leg, taking in the bristling, dark hairs, a centimetre long. I clawed at the neck of my jumper.

  ‘Alrighty, then.’ I cleared my throat, swinging my legs off the couch and onto the floor.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ He perched on the edge of his desk. ‘I have to take some details. Procedure, you know, in case I get sued!’ He waved his hand, as if the very thought of suing him was absolutely unbelievable. ‘Name?’

  ‘Helen Grey.’

  ‘Address and contact number please?’

  I rattled off my details quickly, willing him to get a move on so I could get out of there.

  ‘Well, it’s as I suspected, just a sprain. You’ll need to take it easy for a few days. Put your foot up and rest. You can put a bag of ice on it, or frozen peas, and take some of these if the pain is too bad.’ He handed me a prescription.

  ‘Thanks very much.’ I flashed a quick smile, stood up and hobbled out of the surgery as fast as my gammy foot would allow.

  Once outside, I sat down on the steps and phoned Ayshe to beg her for a lift to my flat. I leaned back. And then I had a ghastly thought.

  Where the hell was Pussy?

  Chapter 3

  ‘Oh, Goddy God!’ I groaned.

  I was expecting Ayshe, but instead her brother Kalem rolled up in his battered old Land Rover. Actually, I could hear it coughing and spluttering up the road before I even clapped eyes on it. At some point it must have been white, but after years of off-roading, it was a kind of a murky-brown colour with just a hint of the original paintwork left. Even Dulux would have had trouble describing this particular shade – ‘crusty chocolate’ perhaps or ‘rancid coconut’?

  I’d known Kalem since the day I started primary school, when he’d taken great delight in yanking my ponytail and chasing me round the playgro
und, inciting all his mates to jump on top of me. Ayshe, who’d spotted it, came running over and proceeded to punch him on the arm, shouting something in Turkish to him. And that had been the start of my wonderful friendship with her. Because I’d known him for so long, we had a brother-sister type of relationship. He would argue lipstick was eyeliner if he knew it would wind me up, which he did, at any possible opportunity. But it was our love of Ayshe that kept us from killing each other.

  I heaved myself into the passenger seat.

  ‘H.’ He acknowledged me with a nickname he’d used since we were kids and which still grated on me and gave me an irresistible urge to punch his lights out.

  ‘Kalem! What a nice surprise,’ I said through clenched teeth. He was the last person I wanted to know about my recent predicament. ‘Why aren’t you at work? Haven’t you got any ice sculpture classes to teach?’

  ‘It’s half-term. Anyway, I teach woodcarving and sculpture, not ice sculpture.’

  ‘Oh. Where’s Ayshe?’ I asked, observing his usual attire of a faded green Land Rover sweatshirt – which had more holes in it than a packet of Hula Hoops – and some even more faded army issue trousers. His cropped dark hair needed a trim, but then, who was I to talk lately? He’d boasted once that his mates often joked that he looked like David Beckham, only more swarthy and exotic looking. I mean, it was a pretty accurate description, and there was no denying it – he was heart-clutchingly gorgeous. But when I’d heard this, I’d erupted in fits of laughter, which seriously annoyed him. He never mentioned it again – I can’t think why not.

  ‘She’s stuck in some marketing meeting and can’t get away, so she called me instead.’

  ‘Um…I’ve got a bit of a problem.’