Sitting Pretty

by April Hardy

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Professional pet-sitter Beth believes her Greek boyfriend, Alex is the one. So when he?s offered a job in Dubai, he and Beth marry so they can move there together. But on the day they?re due to fly to their new life, Alex says their marriage was a mistake and ends it. By phone. Beth is suddenly husbandless and homeless. Distraught, and with her life in turmoil, when her old boss asks a favour she agrees on autopilot, and goes to feed Talisker the cat, whose handsome but dour owner Henry travels one week in three. Finding herself in luxury surroundings, with nowhere to go and determined not to hear her mother?s ?I told you so?, she sleeps on Henry?s sofa. Next day, Beth has her job back and a plan. For the time being, she?ll quietly stay in her clients? homes until she can convince Alex that this is all a big mistake. She?s pretty sure squatting?s against the law, but if she?s careful, no one need find out ? until the mysterious Henry comes home unexpectedly.

Release date: July 7, 2016

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 256

Sample

 

 

 

 

 

My first thanks go to Barbara Large for her wonderful Winchester Writers’ Conferences, and Allie Spencer, whom I met at my first one, for recommending I join the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s New Writers’ Scheme, who also deserve a heartfelt thank you.

 

Anne Bennett, Trisha Ashley and the late Catherine King took me under their wing at my very first RNA event. I have fond memories of our stays at the New Cavendish and want to thank them for the writerly wisdom they imparted in the bar and across the breakfast table. They treated me as if I were already one of the gang!

 

Amanda Jennings and Lucy Diamond gave me generous critical help (literally), thanks to the charity auction, Authors for the Philippines. Ditto Joanne Grant thanks to Authors for Nepal. Very much appreciated!

 

Special thanks to Emirates Airline Festival of Literature, for introducing me to my agent, Alison Bonomi of LBA Books. And to Judy Finnegan and Francesca Main, for choosing one of my stories as the winner of its first Literary Idol Competition in 2014.

 

Also Yvette Judge and all at Dubai International Writers’ Centre, where talented tutors Sherry Ashworth and Jo Wroe provided plenty of inspiration.

 

Cathie Hartigan, Margaret James and Sophie Duffy – thank you for organising the annual Exeter Novel Prize, and Broo Doherty, for judging the finalists. It was a great experience!

 

Much gratitude to my long-suffering editor, Alexandra Davies who, if there was a Nobel prize for patience, would deserve to win it. Thanks too, Hazel Cushion, Bethan James, Rebecca Lloyd and everyone behind the scenes at Accent. Also Cat Camacho, who was my first editor there.

 

Much appreciation to Daunt Books Chelsea, for hosting my London launch, and Jane Northcote at Dubai World Trade Centre Club, for hosting my Dubai one.

 

Enormous hugs for my ever so supportive writing pals, both in UK and Dubai, Sue Mackender, the Tonbridge Diamonds, Sharmila Mohan and Linda MacConnell. You’ve all helped me more than you know.

 

Thanks and love to my family, who’ve been there at every turn and done everything they could to help me on my way.

 

And last but not least, my husband, Andrew, for making it all possible – and for his new-found interest in cooking which couldn’t have come at a better time!

 

 

‘I don’t understand.’ My voice echoed loudly in the empty flat. ‘What do you mean, I’m not coming with you? Alex?’

The voice on the other end of my mobile was quiet now he’d delivered his bombshell. Now he’d told me that our marriage was a mistake and we’d be better off apart. But I knew he was still there. ‘You can’t just bugger off to Dubai without me. I’m your wife. We got married so I could come with you!’ The hammer of my heartbeat rang in my head, drowning out any sound he might have made.

‘We’ve given up the lease on this place.’ I looked around in panic. ‘The shipping company have just gone with all our stuff. What am I supposed to …’ All our stuff. The penny finally dropped, ice-cold and slow, all the way down my back. The movers had boxed up all the furniture and household goods, all the things Alex, with his much bigger salary, had paid for.

When he left for work this morning, he took his clothes and personal things with him. ‘So they wouldn’t be in the way’, he’d said. I’d carefully packed his shirts in tissue paper - in the fancy Kipling travel bags I’d given him as a wedding present. In my Sitting Pretty car downstairs, my clothes, toiletries, and accessories were crammed into an elderly case on dodgy wheels and a couple of big, nylon zip-up sports bags. I was supposed to be driving my work vehicle back to the office for the last time, then Alex was going to pick me up and drive us to the airport.

The muffled sound of an announcement telling passengers to switch off their mobiles for take-off sent my stomach into freefall.

‘You’re on the plane!’ I panted down the phone. ‘You changed the flight! You bastard! How long have you been planning this?’

‘Einai kallitera etsi, it’s better this way … Goodbye, Beth.’ And he hung up. Nothing else. No apology, no explanation. What the hell was I supposed to do now?

I stared blindly through the curtain-less window at the half fresh-green, half reddish-brown, not ready to admit it’s autumn, view of the park. Wintertown Park, with the lake in the distance, had enticed us into paying a small fortune in rent. Today it mocked me. You don’t belong here. You never did. Then it blurred as tears filled my eyes. I’d loved living here. It had been our first marital home.

We’d sort of lived together in London, where we met, courtesy of one of the dogs I was walking for a living escaping my grip and hurtling into Alex on his way to work one morning. The dopey Labrador had been eager for a quick hook-up with a pretty poodle being walked on the other side of the road. In one clumsy collision, Alex had managed to capture both the Labrador and my heart, and we’d been more or less inseparable ever since.

We were lucky that his parents lived far enough away to remain in blissful ignorance. They would’ve had a fit at the thought of their precious son living in sin with a non-Greek; especially when Tula, his Athenian ex-girlfriend – the future daughter-in-law of their dreams – was apparently still single. And following his every move via Facebook. He’d had to be very careful what he put on his page and, until we were actually engaged, I was only allowed to be on there as a friend.

When Alex was asked to head up his company’s new office in Wintertown, we headed there together and they were none the wiser. When he was offered a transfer to Dubai, however, we’d had to make a choice. I couldn’t go with him as his girlfriend; living in sin there really meant in sin and you could go to prison for it. Looking back, it was way too soon to make a commitment like that. His parents and my mum had tried to convince us of it at the time, but we’d ignored them and made it anyway. And now Alex had unmade it. By phone. Furious tears spilled over and I wiped them away with my hands. I didn’t even have a tissue to use. I stood up to get some toilet roll from the bathroom, then sat back down, remembering the packers had used the last of it. Typical.

Slumped on the edge of the window ledge, I sat with my forehead pressed against the cool glass. What did he expect me to do? Go back to London, to my mum’s place and tell her she was right? Move into her spare bedroom and have to watch her not say ‘I told you so’ while I looked for another job and somewhere to live that I could even pretend to be able to afford? If I had any money in my bank account, or a credit card rather than a debit one with nothing behind it, I’d buy my own ticket, get myself over to Dubai and … and what? I wiped my runny nose on my arm. As I got up to see if there was a stray coffee shop napkin scrunched up in my bag, my phone rang again.

‘Alex!’ I yelped, snatching it to my ear. It had been a joke … He was on his way to meet me …

‘Beth, darling?’ My heart sank. It wasn’t him. ‘Beth? Are you there, sweetie?’ It was Davina, my ex-boss. ‘Don’t suppose you’re still in the area, hun?’

What did she want? I couldn’t handle a faux luvvy conversation with her right now.

‘Major cats-trophy here, darling,’ she carried on, oblivious to my silence, as she was to most things. ‘That silly girl who’s supposed to take over your clients has only gone and lost the Parkers’ poodle. You couldn’t pop round and feed Henry Halliday’s cat, could you, sweetie? You’re an angel. Give my love to that handsome husband of yours.’ And she hung up, without even waiting for a reply.

So, my husband had just left me, I was about to be officially homeless, and now I had to go and feed someone’s pampered pet. Maybe I’d wake up soon. Maybe this was a nightmare brought on by the strange concoction I’d put together for last night’s dinner to use up the last bits and pieces in the fridge.

I pinched my arm. It hurt. This was real.

Grabbing my shoulder bag from the window ledge, I marched out the front door. I didn’t even check the rooms to see that nothing had been forgotten. What was the point?

 

Henry Halliday’s chocolate box cottage overlooked the end of Netley Parva village green and backed on to a thicket of trees and Netley Common. During my time at Sitting Pretty I’d fed and walked quite a few pets from the picturesque Netley villages: Netley Magna, Netley Parva, and Netley Mallow, but Henry and his smoky grey cat were long-term regulars. I knew that Eleanor at the tiny post office and general store would have no problem handing me the key she kept for him in case of emergency. I parked the little car and scuttled inside for it, thankful she was busy and didn’t have time to comment on why I was there instead of my replacement. As soon as the key went into the lock, Talisker began meowing on the other side.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting, your lordship.’ I pulled the door behind me, made for the utility room, and opened a tin of salmon flavoured Sheba. He followed me, tail in the air, purring like a steam engine, but instead of tucking into his meal, he wound himself like a feline Slinky round my ankles, then rubbed the sides of his face against my knees, almost pushing me over. I stroked his silky head and back, his warm, furry body vibrating in pleasure. At least someone was pleased to see me.

‘Oh, Tal,’ I sighed as fresh tears blurred his image. Brushing my free arm across my eyes, my vision cleared enough momentarily to see the smudged mascara on it. I briefly wondered if it had been there when I’d gone to pick up the key, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.

‘Eat up, Tal.’ Slowly I stood up, disengaging myself from his comforting presence. I groped my way to the little cloakroom and turned on the tap, splashing cool water over my face and arms until my eyes were red, but clean looking. Then I buried my face in the spotlessly white, fabric-softener-scented hand towel.

Talisker meowed from the doorway then re-launched his friendly assault on my legs. I took my face out of the towel. It looked like somebody had cleaned their shoes with it.

‘Your dad’s going to love me,’ I said to him, wondering if the black marks would rinse out.

‘Come on, fella,’ I stepped carefully round him. ‘I’m sure he won’t mind me making myself a cup of tea.’ The kitchen, like everything in this cottage, was sparklingly clean and fresh smelling. It’s the only home with a pet I’ve ever been in where you can’t immediately smell the presence of a furry animal.

Half-filling the kettle from the tap, I looked for the tea bags. There were tins of Lapsang Souchong, Earl Grey, Orange Pekoe, and Darjeeling. I opened the Darjeeling, but it was loose leaves, not bags. The others turned out to be just the same. Trust Henry Halliday to only have the sort of tea you needed a teapot for. The kettle boiled and switched itself off and I poured a little into the pot to warm it, then made myself half a pot. There was no milk in the fridge. I didn’t have the energy to go back to Eleanor’s to get some – I’d just have to have it black.

I carefully carried the Royal Worcester mug – no chunky Keep Calm and Carry On china for Henry Halliday – into the front room and sat on the sofa. Talisker jumped onto my lap, kneading my thighs like a master bread maker. Leaning my chin on the top of his head, thinking I should be halfway to Heathrow with my husband by now, looking forward to getting rid of our luggage and having a wander round Duty Free, it occurred to me to wonder how Alex was already on a flight just hours before we were supposed to check in for the one we were booked on? They don’t fly that frequently, do they? Had he changed airlines as well as times? I suddenly realised I’d never actually seen the tickets – they were at Alex’s office. I’d just taken everything he said as gospel. When had he decided he wasn’t taking me with him? It couldn’t have been that long ago, or why bother going ahead with the wedding?

The tears threatened to start up again but Talisker sat there patiently, rubbing the top of his head against my lower jaw. It was almost as if he were saying ‘There, there, it’ll be all right’. I could have sat there all night. I wished I could, but I had to return the car. Davina was expecting me to drop it off at the Sitting Pretty office, ready for her to pass on to my replacement. I sighed heavily; this wasn’t how today was supposed to end up at all. The tears welled up and I blinked them back furiously. Damn Alex!

I left good friends and a job I loved in London to move to Hampshire with him, but that was all right because I’d loved it once we got here. And now I’d left another job and another set of friends, and even married him, to follow him further afield. Only this time he’d decided he didn’t want me tagging along. Had being married suddenly felt a bit too real for him? A bit too much like a noose tightening? Was that why he’d done the cowardly thing?

My watch said it was gone six, and I was already exhausted. I didn’t think I could face seeing Davina and pretending everything was all right. And I certainly couldn’t face the journey to London and the painful conversation that would be at the end of it. Wasn’t it a shame this couldn’t have been one of those nights when a client needed a sitter to stay over. The last one had been when old Mrs Williams had to go and take care of an even older relative who’d had a fall and was unable to take Lulu, her Siamese cat, with her but couldn’t bear to leave her alone for a night. The fifth of November would always provide a few overnight sits, when an owner had to be away but was worried that the whizzing and banging of fireworks might upset their beloved pet. We fought over those jobs – watching TV with a little fluff-ball snuggling on your lap and trying to stick its head up your jumper – it was just like babysitting. And we got paid time and a half for it. Between us we’d fallen asleep on more than one sofa.

The sofa here was really comfortable. Would anyone know if I just stayed here tonight? Admitting my world had fallen apart could wait until tomorrow, couldn’t it? Oh God, it was so tempting to lie down and put my head on that plump, velvety cushion.

Talisker head-butted my cheek as if he knew what I was thinking and was saying ‘Yeah, stay with me. Rub my head. You look after me and I’ll look after you’. Did I dare? What were the chances of Eleanor coming to check I’d left? As long as I didn’t make any noise or mess, no one would even know I was here. And I really ought to put that little towel in the washing machine, I reasoned, like a dieter trying to justify having a biscuit. How much noise would the washing machine make?

At that moment the doorbell rang. The mug nearly slipped out of my hand. Had I locked the door when I arrived? Oh God! Holding my breath, Talisker dug a claw in my thigh. I stifled a gasp and the bell rang again. Then, slowly at first, the handle started to rattle.

 

 

The most revolting smell woke me up, rotting fish with a hint of something else, wafting straight in my face. I tried to move but I was pinned down by a heavy weight on my chest. As I opened my eyes, Talisker yawned again.

‘Talisker! Eugh! I managed to turn my head in time to miss most of the toxic blast: last night’s Sheba and cat breath. ‘Stinky cat!’ I eased him, gently but firmly, off me and onto the floor. He seemed more surprised I wasn’t delighted by his morning greeting than offended by my slur against his personal hygiene. I couldn’t imagine Henry Halliday putting up with that. This is a man who pays a woman to come in and iron his tea towels.

I sat up, stretching my arms above my head. The sofa I’d fallen asleep on had actually been more comfortable than our bed. I gritted my teeth; our bed. It was Alex’s bed now. As I tried to push the image out of my head, Talisker jumped back up on my lap.

‘Oh no you don’t, mister,’ I turned him round, so his face was away from me. ‘You may be gorgeous’ I rubbed his ears, ‘and you may be the cleanest cat in the world, but seriously, they could bottle your breath and use it for chemical warfare.’ He purred, so I knew I hadn’t offended him.

 

After Eleanor, or whoever it was, had tried the door last night, I’d been too nervous to move about too much, in case a neighbour heard me and, knowing Henry to be away, brought it to Eleanor’s attention, or even called the police. I thanked my lucky stars that I must have automatically locked the door when I arrived. It’s a company rule that to keep the clients’ homes as secure as possible when we are looking after their pets, we lock doors on arrival. I must have been running on autopilot. And Eleanor must have assumed I’d just forgotten to drop the key back when I left. That would have to be sorted out when I went back later today in my proper role as professional cat sitter. As long as Davina gave me my job back.

That was the plan I’d come up with to stay and carry on working while I saved up some money and decided what I wanted to do about all this. Henry Halliday was my most regular client. He was away on business for one entire week, every three weeks. That meant, if I didn’t manage to get myself caught, I could camp out in his cottage for the whole of every third week. I’d gotten away with it this time, hadn’t I? And that was without any kind of planning or forethought. It would be much easier next time, wouldn’t it? And I was sure there were plenty of other clients whose homes I could sleep in for the odd week, or weekend, or even just a night. Because one thing was certain – I was damned if I was going to leave the job I loved only to move back to London and stay with my mum just because Alex had decided marriage wasn’t for him after all. I would be the one to decide what happened next, thank you very much.

My wages from Sitting Pretty, however, wouldn’t cover the rent of a new flat, even a tiny bedsit. And as for the upfront deposit? Forget it! Because Alex had always been a big spender and I’d preferred to pay my way, I’d not only stopped saving any money, but the little bit I’d previously saved had all but evaporated. I had plenty of zeros in my bank balance – it’s just that the decimal point was on the wrong side of them. There were always friends’ spare rooms and sofas where I could crash, but that would be too awkward. I didn’t want any of them knowing any more about Alex going to Dubai without me than they had to. I refused to be pitied as the girl whose husband had flown to Dubai without her and had ended their marriage with a phone call from the plane. That was not going to be me. I knew I’d have to give all of this a lot more thought later, but for now I wanted to keep what Alex had done to me to myself.

That reminded me, I really needed to call my mum and somehow tell her the change of circumstances without worrying her and without actually telling any lies. I’d have to choose my words carefully. At least I knew Alex wouldn’t be calling her. They’d always been polite to each other for my sake, but they never really hit it off and neither had ever gone out of their way to start a conversation with the other. That should have told me a lot.

I wondered if he’d at least call me to see that I was OK. Somehow I doubted it. If he’d been too chicken to tell me face to face, he’d be too chicken to call me again, knowing I’d had time to think up plenty to say back to him.

 

‘So,’ my fingers raked their way down Talisker’s back, ‘you’re probably ready for some breakfast.’ I got up and followed him to the utility room, where he looked up, expectantly, at the click-lock container of top quality cat biscuits. I tipped some into his bowl. He nudged my hand in thanks and dipped his head towards his breakfast, taking this extra meal as nothing more than his due for sharing the sofa with me last night.

I was starving. Yesterday’s events had obliterated my appetite and food hadn’t even crossed my mind as I spent the evening being as quiet as possible.

Once it had started to get dark, I’d moved . . .