Five Winters(74)

As I dabbed with the kitchen towel, Mark watched me, an utterly miserable expression on his face. Meanwhile, the puppy leapt to the floor and began trying to wiggle his way beneath the sofa.

“You’d better not let him go under there,” I said. “He’ll get stuck. How about distracting him with some food?” I looked at Mark. “You did bring some with you, didn’t you?”

Mark put his head in his hands. I dropped the kitchen towel to grab the back end of the puppy before he could disappear altogether.

“I left it behind when I stormed out. God, I’m an idiot.”

I didn’t wholly disagree with him, to be honest. But not so much because he hadn’t thought the whole get-a-puppy-for-Christmas surprise through properly. More because he’d thought it a good idea to marry puppy-immune Grace in the first place.

“No, you aren’t. You were just upset. Anyway, we have everything we need at the surgery. I’ll just pop up there and get it.”

I phoned Jake on the way to the surgery. His voice was chipper when he answered, and I was sorry I was going to have to disappoint him.

“Hi, Beth. Happy Christmas!”

“Happy Christmas, Jake.”

“So shall I come over? Got the microwave plugged in and ready?”

“Well, the thing is . . . Look, d’you mind very much if we make it tomorrow instead? I’m sorry to let you down, but a friend’s just turned up out of the blue. He’s in a bit of a state, to be honest, because . . . well, let’s just say he needs a listening ear.”

“You’re swapping sick dogs for depressed friends, then, is that it?”

The lightness in his voice came as a relief. “Something like that. D’you mind?”

“Of course not. That’s fine. We didn’t have any definite plans, did we? What time tomorrow? If you’re sure you still want me to come, that is?”

“Yes, I’m sure. About twelve?”

“Twelve it is. I’ll look forward to it.”

“Me too.”

“Happy Christmas, Beth.”

“Happy Christmas, Jake.”

When I returned to the flat with supplies, Mark was sitting on the floor with his back against the sofa. The puppy had hold of his Christmas jumper and was tugging at it for all he was worth. Mark was letting him do it.

“Grace’s aunt knitted it for me,” he said. “She never has liked me.”

The jumper was far too big for him, with a knitted picture of Rudolph on the front, his nose so red it looked as if he had an extremely vicious head cold.

“I brought a few toys for him. Clive always stocks a few things at Christmas.” I put the puppy food on the table and tore off the packaging from a rubber dog bone. “Here,” I said, holding it out to Mark. “Try and tempt him with this while I get his food ready.”

Mark waggled the bone about, his face lighting up when the puppy took the bait. “Good boy! That’s it, get it. Get it! Oh, what a fierce boy he is!”

I laughed—amused as much by Mark’s daft tone of voice as the comic way the puppy was growling, his bottom stuck in the air so he could use all his strength to tug at the bone.

The game lasted until I placed a bowl of dog food down on the floor, and then the puppy flew over to gobble it up.

“I guess he was hungry,” said Mark.

“Yes. You know they need to eat four meals a day at his age, right?”

“I do now.” The overwhelmed tone was back in his voice.

“Look,” I said. “You’d better call Grace, hadn’t you? I’m having a microwave curry for my Christmas dinner. If you decide you’re not going home, there’s a spare. Or I can eat them both if you decide to leave the pup here.”

“You’d do that?” he said.

“What?”

“Eat two curries?”

I smiled at his attempt at humour. “It’s Christmas. Everyone deserves a blowout at Christmas.”

He hauled himself off the floor and headed for the spare bedroom, his shoulders slumped again. The puppy’s bowl clunked on the kitchen floor as the bedroom door closed, and I turned to see the little guy standing on the edge of the bowl to tip it up. “There’s nothing under it, buddy,” I said, switching the radio on to muffle the rumble of Mark’s voice and turning the oven on high to cook the samosas and onion bhajis to go with the curry.

While I was doing all this, the puppy suddenly began to sniff the floor. Acting on instinct, I quickly grabbed a newspaper and put it down. When I placed the puppy on it, he immediately relieved himself. “Good boy!” I said, disposing of the newspaper. I was still smiling at how clever the puppy was when Mark emerged from the bedroom.

“Is your spare curry a korma or a madras?” he asked.

“Went as well as that, did it?” I asked, although I really didn’t need to because I could tell from his face.

“I’ve been ordered home. I mean, literally ordered. ‘Dinner will be ready in an hour. I told Mum and Dad you had to go out and do a favour for a friend. I suggest you get back here ASAP.’”

“Cooking Christmas dinner can be quite stressful.” Or so I believed, not ever having actually done it. Wasn’t even doing it now, unless microwaving curries counted.

Mark sat on the dry part of the sofa. The puppy immediately tried to scramble up. Mark lifted him onto his lap, where he promptly fell asleep.