Must Be Love (12 page)

‘I’ll get myself a wetsuit and a new board. No worries,’ Drew says, and I notice the stubble on his face. Emma won’t approve if he turns up like that for work tomorrow – she’s of the opinion that facial hair on a man is a sign of laziness. I’ve never seen Ben with even a hint of a beard.

‘What do you think of our new vet?’ I ask Frances after Emma and Drew have gone.

‘He’s very handsome, but he’s no gentleman, not like young Mr Fox-Gifford. Gentlemen don’t wear shorts.’

I’m about to argue with her statement when she qualifies it with, ‘Certainly not ones that short, and especially at this time of year. He’ll catch his death and then what use will he be?’ She picks up the air freshener and sprays the air with so much righteous indignation that my next patient comes into the consulting room sneezing.

Wild Rose of Everwood. Black standard poodle
. I let my eye drift along the details on my monitor.
Owner: Miss A. Ballantyne. Not one of ours, but can’t be put off
.

I recognise the name. Aurora Ballantyne owns the boutique in Talyton St George. A couple of weeks ago she dressed the mannequins in the window in designer lingerie, and for a few days the ladies from the church picketed the shop with placards in an attempt to reclaim the streets of Talyton from sin, but Aurora stood her ground and the mannequins remain with their flesh bared to all who pass by.

I wonder what she’s like, if she’s going to be difficult, because she must be a very persuasive woman if Frances can’t put her off. I wrap my hands around the mug of coffee Shannon’s left for me and take a sip. I don’t know what she’s done to it, but it’s lukewarm and tastes of egg with a hint of cremated chicken. Suppressing a wave of nausea, I tip it down the sink before I call Aurora in.

A black poodle – one of the tall ones, not one that’ll fit easily on your lap – comes trotting in on a bling-laden pink leather lead. She sneezes four or five times.

Aurora’s in her late twenties, I’d guess. It isn’t easy to tell with her heavy make-up and beechnut tan. She wears skinny-leg black jeans, long boots and a yellow trench coat nipped in at the waist. She and her dog make a striking pair.

‘Saba’s been raped. On the Green.’ I notice how Aurora shudders. ‘He was revolting, his tongue hanging out, slobbering everywhere. I’m sorry, he reminded me so much of my ex-husband,’ she adds, a faint smile on her painted lips. ‘I hope I haven’t offended your receptionist – I was a bit pushy. I usually take Saba to the vets up at the Manor, but I’ll never go there again. Old Mr Fox-Gifford is unutterably, indescribably rude and this is all his fault.’

I let her go on to explain.

‘He stopped his car and let all his dogs out, didn’t bother to get out himself to put them on leads, and then that hideous thug of a black Labrador jumped on her. And everyone was watching.’

I assume she means the other dog walkers of Talyton, and there are a lot of them, including the Four O’Clock Club and the Waggy Tails, who meet every day.

‘I tried to pull him off, but he got – ugh – stuck.’

‘That’s quite normal for mating dogs – it’s called the tie,’ I say, trying to reassure her that Saba wasn’t hurt during the process, but Aurora clasps her hand to her mouth as if she’s going to be sick. I offer her a stool to sit on, but she declines, and I turn my attention to Saba (I assume that’s her pet name), who wags the pompom on the end of her tail. She doesn’t look that upset about what’s happened. In fact, I suspect she rather enjoyed it.

‘I’ll have to ask the Talyton Manor Vets for Saba’s records. It’s a matter of professional courtesy.’ Not that Old Fox-Gifford is known for his courtesy, I think, as I slip out into Reception and ring him anyway.

‘Good riddance to her, and good luck to you. I wasn’t that keen on the little bitch anyway,’ he says, and I don’t think he’s referring to the dog. ‘What does she expect? Parading that ridiculous poodle around when she’s in season. She was asking for it.’ He swears, then his voice softens very slightly. ‘I expect she likes a bit of rough. R. U. F. F.’ I hang up as Old Fox-Gifford continues, ‘Ruff, ruff.’

I hope Alex isn’t going to end up completely barking like his father.

‘Old Mr Fox-Gifford is of the opinion that Saba was asking for it,’ I say on returning to the consulting room.

‘Saba’s a pedigree. She isn’t some old slapper,’ Aurora says tearfully, making me realise how upset she really is.

‘I’m sorry.’ I rest my hands on the table. ‘What would you like me to do?’

‘I want you to get rid of them, wash the little bastards out. Haven’t you got some kind of doggy douche?’

‘I can give her an injection, the equivalent of the morning-after Pill. Are you sure you want to get rid of them?’

‘If I let her have this litter, the next lot will be born deformed.’

‘That’s a myth,’ I say, ‘as is the idea that you should let every bitch have one litter to satisfy her maternal instincts.’ In my opinion, people have them to satisfy their own. ‘She doesn’t need to have puppies at all, but if that’s what you’ve been planning anyway, then I’d consider letting Nature take its course. Labradoodles are very popular at the moment.’

‘Oh?’

‘They make a great cross. Labrador and poodle – you get the best of both breeds.’ Presumably the reverse holds true too, I think, picturing a big, boisterous dog shedding hair and scavenging for all kinds of unmentionable delicacies on its walks.

‘Well, I was planning for her to have a litter.’ Aurora turns aside and rubs Saba’s face. ‘I wish you’d taken a fancy to a real dog. What was wrong with Lord Goldenpaws of Waltingham?’ Aurora turns back tome. ‘I took her miles to one of the top stud poodles in the country, but she refused to look at him.’

‘It does happen.’

‘When will you know she’s pregnant?’

‘I’ll be able to check by feeling her tummy in about three weeks’ time. By then, the pups, if there are any, will feel like two strings of marbles.’

I make sure Frances books her in for another appointment three weeks down the line.

‘It’s for a pregnancy diagnosis,’ I tell her, and she looks at me in that strange way she does when she’s restraining herself from expressing an opinion. I give her a warning glance not to say anything. I’m not having her tell me I can’t treat Aurora’s dog because she has near-naked mannequins in her shop window.

I turn back to Aurora.

‘I’ll see you soon. If there are any problems in the meantime, let me know straight away.’

‘It’s like a disease,’ Frances says, when we’re at the desk watching her go, Saba prancing on Aurora’s toes as if nothing has happened.

‘What is?’ I pick up a pen and doodle idly on the current page of the daybook.

‘This outbreak of pregnancy. It’s happening all over town.’

‘We don’t know Saba’s pregnant yet,’ I point out. ‘And Frances, this has nothing to do with Aurora’s moral values – or lack of them,’ I add, recalling how Aurora isn’t above having an affair with a married man. (She had a fling with Stewart, Lynsey Pitt’s husband and Alex’s best friend, last summer.)

‘I’m not talking about her. She isn’t having a baby. I know these things. I can always tell when a woman’s in the family way.’

‘Well, as long as you don’t go muscling in on my territory,’ I say, smiling, ‘as long as you leave the dogs and cats to me.’

I’m not sure Emma’s going to be able to leave the cats and dogs, or any other variety of patient for that matter, to Drew. He starts as planned the following day, turning up on time, clean-shaven and with his legs covered, and I breathe a small sigh of relief because I’m afraid some of Talyton’s womenfolk might find the sight of his long bare legs rather distracting.

Immediately, Emma begins fussing around him, more like a mother duck than a hen, the way she’s beginning to waddle.

‘I’ll be right outside if you need anything, Drew. If there’s anything you need to ask …’ She hands him a gown from theatre to put over his clothes. (The order for a set of scrubs in XXL hasn’t materialised yet.)

‘No worries,’ Drew says. ‘I’ll soon find my way around the place.’

‘Frances has booked Mr Victor’s parrot in for wing clipping later this morning. I’m happy to do it if you let me know when he arrives.’

‘I can deal with it.’ Drew’s cheeks redden. ‘I’ve seen plenty of parrots. We do have them back home.’

‘I’m sure Drew knows what he’s doing, Em,’ I say, trying to save him – and Emma – further embarrassment.

‘Yes, Maz. You’re right.’ Biting her lip, she turns back to Drew. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being a pain, aren’t I?’

‘She was like this when she left me in charge last year,’ I tell him, ‘and then she fell pregnant quite deliberately so she had an excuse to come back early to check up on me.’

‘I understand,’ says Drew. ‘I’d be the same if I had my own practice.’

‘We’ll leave you to it, then,’ I say, and Emma and I wait for him to disappear into the consulting room with his first patient of the day before we sidle back to the desk at Reception and take a look over Frances’s shoulder at the list of appointments on her monitor, Frances grumbling that we’re disturbing her.

‘There isn’t anything too challenging, is there?’ I say to Emma.

‘You’re as bad as I am,’ she chuckles.

‘I’m more discreet, though. Anyway, there aren’t any of our really fussy clients booked in.’ The ones who refuse to see anyone but Emma – Mrs Dyer and her Great Dane Brutus, for example – and, less commonly, anyone but me. It’s nice to feel wanted, but it can be a bit of a pain at times.

‘I’m sure Drew’s a perfectly competent vet,’ Emma says, but then she would say that. She has a vested interest in his commitment to the Otter House Vets being a success, after all.

She excuses herself and I’m about to follow when Shannon turns up for the late shift. (We’re experimenting with splitting the working day into two shifts for the nurses because we don’t need both Izzy and Shannon here for evening surgery when there’s only one vet on.) There’s something different about Shannon, and I can’t put my finger on it.

‘Maz, I’ve brought Angel in with me,’ she says. ‘I thought perhaps Drew would be able to have a look at him and give him the injections Izzy told me about. I didn’t realise he was supposed to have injections, otherwise I’d have had them done before.’

‘I’m sure it can be arranged.’ I glance into the carrier she’s holding. A black rabbit with floppy ears looks back at me, apparently unconcerned by his imminent visit to the vet. I look towards Frances. ‘Would you mind sticking Angel on the end of Drew’s consults?’

Frowning, Frances adds Angel to the list before Shannon takes him through to Kennels for the day.

‘You and Emma aren’t the only ones with their eye on Drew,’ Frances says, and I realise what’s different about Shannon. She’s toned down the make-up and replaced her black studs with sparkly ones.

Frances lowers her voice to a spitty whisper. ‘She’s taken a fancy to him. There’s going to be trouble. A nubile’ – she pronounces the word as ‘nubble’, so at first I wonder what she’s talking about – ‘girl like Shannon and a reprobate of a young vet.’

‘Frances, you can’t call him a reprobate just because he wears shorts in his spare time.’ I can’t help smiling, because although I can see that Shannon might well be interested in Drew in a teenage crush kind of way, I can’t believe Drew would be interested in her with her black eyes and lank black hair. ‘Anyway, it’ll come to nothing. Drew isn’t a permanent fixture. He’ll be going home in a few months.’

A loud squawk interrupts our conversation and Mr Victor, who runs the ironmonger’s in town, comes into Reception carrying a parrot, an African grey, in a cage partially covered with a towel. He’s a squat little man with a scant ginger beard who reminds me of Captain Mainwaring in
Dad’s Army
, which is how I remember the name of his bird, the Captain.

‘Good morning, ladies,’ he says. ‘I hope I’m not going to have to wait. I’ve had to leave the honesty box beside the till and the shop unlocked.’

I stand aside, so Frances can book him in.

‘You’ll be seeing Drew, our new locum,’ Frances says.

‘Does he know anything about parrots?’ Mr Victor enquires. ‘If he doesn’t have a passion for birds, I don’t want to see him. I’ll rebook to see Emma, although I shall find it damnably inconvenient.’

Frances looks at me for help and I recall what Emma said about the practice Drew was working for in Edinburgh.

‘Drew specialises in small animals and exotics,’ I say, which seems to reassure Mr Victor, who takes a seat to wait his turn. When I don’t hear any screeching and squawking from the Captain, I assume Drew’s coping well enough. I do find an excuse to nip in later – to collect a dose of antibiotic for one of my inpatients. I take a while longer than necessary, shuffling the boxes, listening in to Drew’s current consultation with Eleanor Tarbarrel, wife of the solicitor who drew up the partnership agreement for me and Emma, with her ancient cat, Bobby. She drags him out of his wicker basket and cuddles him to her chest.

‘He’s looking bright and bushy-tailed,’ Drew says, and I cringe because he looks as if he’s on death’s door to me. He’s like an anatomical specimen, bone covered with a thin, unkempt black coat of fur.

‘Maz says he’s on his last legs,’ says Eleanor Tarbarrel, looking towards me, as if to say, What’s going on here? ‘She’s given him weeks to live.’

‘Well, whatever she’s giving him seems to be doing the trick,’ Drew says smoothly. ‘What’s he on?’

‘I don’t know.’ Eleanor’s looking at me again. ‘She gives him an injection and some pills every fortnight. It’s all on the computer.’ She pauses, appraising his appearance, and I think, Thank goodness he isn’t wearing shorts. ‘You are a proper vet?’

‘Of course. I’m sorry if I seem flustered, but it’s always a bit daunting starting out in a new practice. I came down from Edinburgh yesterday, and I’m still finding my feet.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Eleanor’s voice is laced with suspicion and doubt. ‘Are you going to give Bobby a blood test this time, only he hates them so much.’

‘Let’s have a look at him first,’ says Drew. ‘We don’t want to upset poor little Bobs unnecessarily.’

Bobs? I check to see how this is going down with Eleanor, who places Bobby on the table.