Free Lost Dogs and Lonely Hearts by Lucy Dillon Page B

so as not to tread on the two nervous little white terriers, but it was a start.
    Four Oaks sat at the top of the hill like a child’s drawing of a house – a perfectly symmetrical box, with four big six-pane windows in white frames, two upstairs, two down, with a circular porthole above the red front door, and scribbles of climbing ivy all across the front. It had a panoramic view down towards Longhampton’s modest spread of streets, and Rachel could see the Victorian town hall spire rising above the distant roofs as she and Megan headed out of the orchard onto the footpath.
    Though the market town was quite busy, from what she remembered, the landscape quickly turned rural beyond the kennels: the lane running past the back gate went towards the town one way, and out into the thick woodlands the other, after which were fields of cows and the beginnings of some unassuming hills.
    ‘We usually do this loop that goes through the wood, down to the town, around the park and back,’ said Megan, setting off on a bridle-path hedged with rowan and gorse. She was steering four dogs on two double leads like a charioteer. ‘If you want, I’ll throw some balls while you have a quick run round, and do any shopping you need? Quite a few shops are open today.’
    ‘Thanks.’ Rachel looked down at her black Joseph trousers, now tucked into the boots for protection. ‘I could do with getting some spare clothes. I didn’t bring much that’s up to dog walking.’
    ‘I’ve got to warn you, the shops won’t be what you’re used to in London.’ Megan smiled. ‘Maybe you should ask George what sort you should get, since he’s the one who seems so concerned about them?’
    ‘I don’t take fashion advice from a man who wears red trousers,’ said Rachel, spurred into a better mood by the spring air. ‘They’ve been illegal since 1938 in most parts of Britain.’
    Megan giggled. ‘I’ll tell him that, shall I? It’s about time he got a taste of his own medicine. Oi, Tinker! Out of there. Just pull him gently, Rachel.’
    ‘His own medicine?’ Rachel tugged Tinker out of a bush, terrified she was about to break him. ‘Are you saying I’m as rude as he is?’
    ‘No! I mean, sort of. Oh, George is terrible. I think it comes from living on his own.’ Megan paused, waiting for Rachel to regain control of the terrier. ‘But you should see Freda when he tells her how badly trained Pippin was. She goes all giggly.’
    ‘That’s probably because she’s the only one old enough to remember the last time that rude charm thing worked,’ said Rachel. ‘Doesn’t the fact that he lives on his own give him a clue?’
    ‘Well, that’s his choice. George isn’t short of admirers, believe it or not,’ said Megan. ‘Some women round here love that rugged Daniel Craig the Vet look. And he owns that practice, so he’s raking it in, with all the horses and farms round here. ’
    Rachel snorted in amusement. ‘Daniel Craig! Is that what he thinks?’
    ‘It’s what everyone else thinks, especially since he turned up in a dinner jacket to Mrs Merryman’s Christmas drinks. Rachel, this is the sticks. There isn’t a whole lot of choice.’ Megan stopped, put one hand on Rachel’s arm, and widened her eyes in warning. ‘Spend more than a year in Longhampton and you’ll find yourself thinking Ted Shackley has a look of Paul Newman. Take it from me, you’d better start liking older men.’
    Rachel laughed, and for a second, she almost forgot why that wasn’t the least bit funny. When it did sting – that she always went for older men, stupidly thinking they were more reliable – the joke was still there, and she felt a sudden relief. Megan didn’t know about Oliver. She didn’t have to explain him, or omit him, or apologise for him, as she’d done for her friends in London, leaving herself with half a life at any one time.
    Oliver was gone. She was starting again. In a weird way, it was like a weight lifting off her