is met by a loud, excited barking, which stops very abruptly. I make a face. I suspect somebody just got told off.
When Jackson opens the door I don’t have time to look at him, because a large bundle of black fur – lead flying between its legs – has hit me in the gut and sent me sprawling.
‘Oof !’ I’ve whacked my tailbone, and my wrist took the brunt of the fall, but the main thing I’m dealing with right now is the dog very enthusiastically licking my face. ‘Hello, you – would you – Christ …’
It’s sitting on top of me and has got my necklace between its teeth. Oh, and now it’s started playing tug of war with it, brilliant, that’s—
‘Bollocks, shite, sorry.’ A large hand reaches down and hauls the dog up by the collar. ‘Hank. Sit.’
Hank scrabbles off me and lands in a sitting position. Unfortunately, he takes my necklace with him; it hangs between his teeth, pendant swinging on the broken chain. I follow Hank’s adoring gaze upwards towards his owner.
It’s strange, looking at Jackson. He’s definitely the kid I knew, but it’s as though he used to be crumpled up tight and now someone’s smoothed him out – the tense jaw’s eased, the hunched shoulders have loosened, and he’s opened up into a broad-shouldered, dozy-eyed giant of a man with a mop of messy brown hair. There’s what looks like coffee down the front of his T-shirt, and a very large hole in the left knee of his jeans. On the arm that’s now holding Hank’s lead, there’s a white strip where his watch ought to be – his forearms are slightly sunburned, a real achievement in the English springtime.
At a push I’d say his expression is somewhere between bewilderment and bashfulness, but he’s got one of those unreadable faces that either means you’re deep and mysterious or don’t have much to say, so I’m not completely sure.
‘You’re not Eileen Cotton,’ he says. His Yorkshire accent is stronger than it was when he was younger – or perhaps I’ve been away too long.
‘Actually, I kind of am. I’m Leena. Remember me?’
He blinks. After a few moments his eyes widen. ‘Leena Cotton?’
‘Yep!’
‘Huh.’ After a few very long seconds Jackson shifts his gaze to the horizon and clears his throat. ‘Umm,’ he says. ‘You got … different. As in, you look different.’
‘So do you!’ I say. ‘You’re so much more …’ I flush. Where am I going with this sentence? The first word that’s popped into my head is manly, which is not a thing I’m going to say out loud. ‘I hear you’re a primary school teacher now?’ I say quickly.
‘Aye, that’s right.’ He scrubs a hand through his hair. It’s half standing on end now.
‘Well!’ I say, looking down at Hank, who has dropped my necklace and is now attempting the presumably quite frustrating task of trying to pick it up again without opposable thumbs. ‘I guess this is the dog!’
I’m exclaiming too much. Why am I exclaiming so much?
‘Aye,’ Jackson says, clearing his throat again. ‘This is Hank.’
I wait. ‘Great!’ I say eventually. ‘Well. Shall I walk him, then?’
Jackson pauses, one hand still on his head. ‘Eh?’
‘The dog. Shall I walk him?’
Jackson looks down at Hank. Hank gazes back at him, tail now methodically swiping my necklace back and forth on the doorstep.
‘Where’s Eileen?’ Jackson asks after another long, bewildered pause.
‘Oh, she didn’t tell you? She’s gone to London for two months. I’m housesitting for her and looking after all her projects – the little things she does around the village, you know.’
‘You’ve got big wellies to fill, there,’ Jackson says, scratching the back of his neck. It’s a gesture another guy might use as an excuse to show off his biceps, but it seems genuinely unselfconscious. There’s a shambolic sort of sexiness to Jackson, actually, helped by a pair of very blue eyes and that classic rugby-player nose, crooked to one side from having been broken.
‘I’m sure I’ll manage!’ I say.
‘You ever walked a dog before?’
‘No, but don’t worry, I am very well prepared.’ No need to tell him that I’ve extensively researched dog-walking, the Labrador breed, and the exact route of the walk Grandma instructed me to take.
‘He’s only eight months,’ Jackson says, scrubbing at his hair again. ‘He’s a bit of a handful, still. I really only ask Eileen to walk him on Wednesdays because she was so good with him, and it gives me a chance to go in