The Switch - Beth O'Leary Page 0,79

darting between tree branches above us. The beauty of nature. Yes. Focus on the beauty of nature, Leena, not the sensation of Jackson’s broad, muscled body rubbing against your nipples.

‘You ready to take him?’ Jackson asks, nodding in Hank’s direction.

I clear my throat. ‘Yes! Sure!’

‘Here.’ He reaches into his back pocket and produces a dog treat. Hank smells it right away – he lifts his nose and glances towards us.

‘Try saying “heel”,’ Jackson tells me.

‘Heel, Hank,’ I say.

Hank drops into step, looking up at me with the adoring expression I thought he reserved for Jackson. Turns out it’s all about the chicken treats. I am much cheered by this.

‘Hey, look at that!’ I say, looking over at Jackson.

He smiles back at me, dimples showing, then his gaze slides away, uncomfortable.

We walk on; our footsteps are the only sound I can hear now, aside from the warbling birds. Hank is doing brilliantly, though I’m gripping the lead very tightly, just in case. Jackson takes us back on a route I don’t know, passing through beautiful dense, cool woodland to the east of the village, until we’re within sight of Hamleigh again. From here you can see the little cul-de-sac where Betsy lives, five or six white, blockish houses with their faces turned our way, windows blinking in the light.

‘You’re doing that thinking thing again, aren’t you?’ Jackson says, looking at me sideways.

‘Do you honestly not think? As in, if you’re walking around, you’re just thinking of nothing?’

Jackson shrugs. ‘If nothing needs thinking about, yeah.’

Astonishing. ‘I was thinking about Betsy, actually,’ I say. ‘I wonder … I worry about her a bit.’

‘Mmm. We all do.’

‘Arnold said that too, but … why hasn’t anyone done anything then?’ I ask. ‘Do you think Cliff treats her badly? Should we be helping her leave him? Offering her a spare room? Doing something?’

Jackson’s shaking his head. ‘It’s about what Betsy wants,’ he says. ‘And she doesn’t want any of that.’

‘She’s lived with the man for decades – if he has been mistreating her, how can you know she knows what she wants?’

Jackson blinks at me, registering this. ‘What would you suggest?’ he asks.

‘I want to go around to see her.’

‘She’ll never invite you in. Even Eileen never gets to go in Betsy’s house.’

‘No way!’

Jackson nods. ‘Far as I’m aware. Cliff doesn’t like visitors.’

I grit my teeth. ‘Well. All right. How about we enlist a little help from Hank?’

*

‘Betsy, I’m so sorry,’ I say, ‘but I think Hank’s in your garden.’

Betsy blinks at me through the inch gap in the door. Her house isn’t at all what I’d expected. I thought it’d be all twee roses and perfectly polished doorsteps, but the house’s gutters are hanging loose and the windowsills are peeling. It looks sad and unloved.

‘Hank? Jackson’s dog? How on earth did he get into our garden?’

Well, by me picking him up, Jackson giving me a boost, and me dropping Hank from a possibly quite dangerous height into the relatively soft landing of a large shrub.

‘I really don’t know,’ I say, spreading my hands helplessly. ‘That dog can wriggle his way in and out of everywhere.’

Betsy looks behind her. God knows what Hank is currently doing to her garden.

‘I’ll go and get him,’ she says, and closes the door in my face.

Shit. I look behind me and whistle between my teeth; after a long moment Jackson appears at the end of the path to Betsy’s front door.

‘She’s gone to get him!’ I hiss.

Jackson waves a hand. ‘She won’t be able to catch him,’ he says comfortably. ‘Just stay put.’

I turn back to the door, tapping my foot. After about five minutes the door opens a crack and Betsy’s head appears. She looks a bit more dishevelled than she did last time.

‘You’ll have to come through and get him yourself,’ she says quietly. She glances behind her again. She seems older, more hunched, but maybe it’s the setting of the worn-out house. The hall carpet is threadbare and stained; the lampshade hangs wonkily, casting strange lopsided shadows on the beige walls.

‘Betsy!’ yells a gruff male voice from somewhere within the house.

Betsy jumps. It’s not a normal jump, the kind you do when you’re startled. It’s more like a flinch.

‘One moment, love!’ she calls. ‘A dog’s just got loose in the garden, but I’m getting it sorted! Come on through,’ she whispers to me, ushering me past the closed door to our left and into the small, dark kitchen.

There’s a door leading out into the garden; it swings