can even say she got it wrong and it couldn’t be further from the truth – he’ll be so confused he won’t know what to believe. Then see if he sticks around. Personally, I bet he will. I’ll bet the money’s got nothing to do with it. He’s a nice guy, Poppy. Don’t write him off entirely.’
‘Really?’ I asked anxiously. ‘You really like him, Jennie?’
‘Yes, I do, but it’s what you think that matters.’
‘But that’s just it, I don’t know!’ I yelped. ‘Don’t know my own mind any more. Not sure I have one as a matter of fact.’
‘Course you do.’ But it wasn’t said with much conviction and I slumped miserably at the table, holding my head theatrically in my hands. I knew she was being extra punchy because she’d made a fool of herself last night and was roaring back from the dog house, but still.
‘When’s Leila due?’ I asked, jerking upright, keen to plunge her back into her own domestic crisis.
‘Leila,’ she spat. ‘Who knows. Dogs are supposed to have a fourteen-week gestation period, but since she’s half devil it could be any time. She’s not fit to be a mother, Poppy. Quite aside from her mental-health issues she’s a serial shagger and that’s not nice, is it? I’d ask the vet to terminate her but the children would never forgive me. And anyway, how d’you stop a She-Devil whelping? She’d find a way to squeeze them out, just to spite me.’
I grinned. Jennie huffed and puffed a lot of hot air, but I knew very well that cometh the hour, cometh the midwife. She’d be up all night, installed in Leila’s whelping box, coaxing her along, holding her paw during contractions, and then be besotted by the litter; never leaving the house, so busy would she be mashing Weetabix and scrambling eggs. In fact there was every possibility she’d keep the lot. A rather satisfactory vision of eight, fully grown Leilas on the end of eight leads, propelling Jennie at speed through the village, sprang to mind.
‘You know, it might be the making of her,’ I mused.
‘Leila? I doubt it. She’ll probably give birth in a nasty wet bush and be off in moments, sniffing for trouser again. Looking for another Peddler to do some brisk fornicating with. Wasn’t that the name of the dog?’
‘Peddler? Oh God, of course. Mark said she’d been seen with him. They might be Peddler’s puppies! Oh, Jennie, I’d really like one if they are.’
‘Would you?’ She looked surprised. Then she brightened. ‘Okeydoke. But there might be some demand, you know.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘Despite my own misgivings, Leila is well liked around here. Might be expensive too. But I’ll put you on my list.’
Typical. Really typical. She was back in control again. Imagining herself saying, ‘No, Mrs Fish, I’m not convinced your garden is big enough.’
‘She’s definitely pregnant, is she?’ I warned. ‘That test might not be accurate on a dog.’
‘My thoughts entirely so I rang the vet. He said it’ll be pretty conclusive, the hormones are much the same. And as Dan tastefully pointed out, she’s dugging up a treat.’
‘Right. Bugger. Why isn’t it starting?’ I gazed at my unlit washing machine.
‘Because you’ve put too much in.’
Annoyingly I knew she was right and I stalked to open it and pull out a sheet. It had got caught somehow and I tugged at the clod of linen but it was stuck fast, so that when I pulled really hard, the whole contents of the drum came out in rush, which had me falling on my bottom. At which point the doorbell went.
‘D’you want me to get that?’
‘Please.’
‘And then I’m going to have her spayed,’ Jennie told me decisively as she marched to the front door. ‘That’ll take the wind out of her sails.’
‘They get fat and bad-tempered,’ I warned.
‘Who doesn’t?’ she snorted. ‘Spayed or not.’
I separated a double duvet cover from the herd and stuffed the rest back in, resetting the dial. Away it went.
‘Thank you,’ I heard Jennie say to someone at the door. She came back down the hall. ‘Hey, look at this.’
I turned to see her bearing a bunch of white roses with pretty blue cornflowers tucked in between. She handed them to me. ‘For you, apparently.’
Astonished, I took the paper-wrapped bouquet. Then sat down and opened the note. It was a long time since anyone had sent me flowers. In fact … no. No one at all.
‘They’re from Luke,’ I said slowly, reading. ‘Hope you’re