The Queen's Margarine (9 page)

‘Hey, listen,' he said. ‘Let's go for a stroll to the pub. A bit of fresh air might wake me up, and, anyway, I think we ought to celebrate.'

Pooch didn't need a second invitation, but sprang off his lap with touching eagerness and rushed over to the door; her whole small body quivering with excitement. Lynette would have complained about his ‘drinking problem', or said she couldn't be
fagged, or insisted they went not to the George and Dragon (where all his mates hung out), but to some pricey, rackety club.

Before leaving, he took off her collar and changed it for the one he'd bought: real leather, but low-key – the plainest in the shop, in fact. He also switched on the answer-phone and double-checked it was working. He couldn't afford to take the slightest chance. Having given his number to the vet, the police, the Dogs' Home and the RSPCA, it would be downright irresponsible to miss the owner's call, when that very call might be the start of a whole new glorious chapter in his life.

‘Listen, Howard, I'm sorry to bring her in again, but I just can't leave her shut up in the flat. It's cruelty to animals.'

‘And what about cruelty to people, inflicting that thing on the rest of us?'

‘Come off it, Howard, the others aren't that bothered. Ask Phil. He actually likes her.'

‘Well, I can't say she's any trouble,' Phil conceded, as the dog rushed over to say hello, how are you?

‘And what do
you
think, Matthew?'

‘Well, I was dead against it at first, but I have to admit, when Angie came in yesterday, she seemed completely smitten with the creature. In fact, I doubt if we'd have persuaded her to sign up with us at all, if Pooch here hadn't charmed her.'

‘See, Howard?' Adam crowed. ‘Three against one.'

‘OK, OK, I'll put up with it the rest of this week, but if the bloody owner hasn't claimed her property by then, it'll have to go to a dog-pound.'

‘I'd nick her, if I was you,' said Matthew, ‘and sell her for a fortune. They say it's a growth industry, stealing pedigree dogs. I mean, who's to know if you just forget about the owner and make a nice fat profit?'

‘I'd
know,' said Howard acidly. ‘And for God's sake, no more
dog-talk
! I'm off to see Megatron and I expect the rest of you to get on with some work. As for
you
, Pooch, sit down and shut up!'

‘You can't really call her Pooch,' said Phil, once Howard was safely out of earshot. ‘It's not right for a pedigree. And bichons have real class, you know. Aunt Fran was always telling me how
they go back bloody centuries – well, to the 1100s, at least. She said sailors used to barter them, as they moved from place to place, so eventually they were taken all over the world. And later, so she told me, they became all the rage in Renaissance France, a sort of fashion accessory – I suppose what we'd call a must-have for the courtiers. Apparently, one of the French kings used to carry his wherever he went, in a specially made basket, tied with fancy ribbons round his neck.'

‘For Christ's sake, don't give Adam ideas! That's all we need to put our clients off – one of our top designers with a bloody
berib-boned
basket round his neck!'

‘Shut up, Matthew! I'm loving this. I mean, it could have been a mutt that followed me out of the pub, and instead I find it's a royal favourite.'

‘The Italian nobles doted on them, too,' Phil remarked, strolling to the water-cooler. And they were painted by famous artists like Goya and—'

‘So what do we call her?' Matthew interrupted. ‘Francesca de Rimini?'

‘How about Queenie,' Phil suggested, sipping his water as he ambled back to his desk.

‘A bit plebby, don't you think?' Adam settled the dog snugly beside his chair before switching on his computer.

‘Princess, then.'

‘Not easy to say when you're calling her to heel.'

‘Snowball?'

‘Twee. And far too obvious.'

‘Fang,' said Matthew, grinning.

‘Get lost!'

‘Well, Fluffy, then.'

‘Demeaning. Phil's just told us she's a classy little bitch, so I don't want names like Trixie, Flossy, Lucky and all that sort of thing.'

‘Well, give her a proper woman's name – something upper-crust like Olivia or Chloe.'

‘Why not Lady Muck, and be done with it.' Matthew slurped his coffee with a complete lack of finesse.

‘I know!' said Adam suddenly.

‘What?' the others asked, all looking up from their screens.

‘Charmayne.'

‘That's just as plebeian as Queenie. Who ever heard of a royal called Charmayne?'

‘
And
difficult to call.'

‘And doesn't suit her any better than Pooch.'

‘Yes, it does,' said Adam, smiling to himself. ‘It's actually the perfect name.' He gave the dog a congratulatory pat, murmuring to her
sotto voce
, ‘I hereby christen you Charmayne. And when your owner comes to fetch you, let's hope she'll be a clone of the first sensational Charmayne!'

‘Shit! Who's that?' Adam muttered to himself, jumping as the doorbell pealed. No one called this early on a Saturday, unless – God forbid – Lynette had come storming round to collect her bloody lamp, as she'd been threatening for some time. It was
his
lamp, in point of fact, and he had no intention of handing it over without a showdown, if not fisticuffs.

He strode to the door in annoyance (first turning down the gas beneath his still raw scrambled eggs), flung it open, and was thrown to see a stranger on the step: a small, slack-jawed man, with piggy eyes, pouty lips and bleached-blond hair curling in a halo round his head. The guy's clothes were emphatically camp: blinding-white trousers; flamboyant shirt the colour of crushed strawberries, and a soft white leather jacket, studded along each sleeve with a row of glittery hearts. Oh, my God! he thought.

‘So
very
sorry to turn up unannounced.' The voice was breathless, girly. ‘But I dared not waste a second trying to reach you on the phone. The minute I heard you had my dog, I just had to race right round here to make sure that it was true. Please say it is. Oh, please!'

The man's words barely registered. Adam was otherwise engaged – recalling Matthew's contention that dogs resembled their owners. Yes, absolutely right. Here, standing just outside his flat was a curly blond, short in stature, small in size, whose eyes, though barely visible, were undeniably dark. He held on to the door-frame for support, as his new gorgeous, docile female, his new loving, doting family, crumbled into dust.

‘Where
is
she? Can you fetch her?' The guy clutched his arm with plump, perspiring fingers, his voice rising higher still.

Adam's own voice seemed hoarse and croaky, as if it had rusted up. He cleared his throat; paused for what seemed aeons, before finally blurting out, ‘She ran away.'

‘Oh, no!' The cry was so anguished, so close to black despair, Adam all but relented – almost, but not quite.

‘Yeah. Last night. She vanished – just like that. I searched the whole damned area, stayed out for hours, got soaked to the skin, in fact. But not a sign of her.'

The man drew himself up to his full height – a pathetic
five-foot
-four. ‘How could you be so careless? That's criminal neglect! You must have left the door ajar, or a window open somewhere, or—'

‘For fuck's sake!' Adam shouted. ‘I've put up with her for two sodding weeks, fed her on the fat of the land, taken her for endless walks, practically killed myself looking after her, and then you have the nerve to …' He broke off with a twinge of guilt. The only walks Charmayne had had were from the bus-stop to the office, and to and fro to the pub. And her diet never varied now from basic beef or rabbit chunks (half the price of the Gourmet range). Too bad. This man still had a bloody cheek to start accusing him.

‘
You're
the one who's careless,' he yelled, returning to the fray, ‘for having lost her in the first place. Why the hell did you let her out of your sight? And why leave it almost a fortnight before trying to get her back? That's asking for trouble, isn't it? My place obviously seemed strange to her, so she was bound to escape and try to find her real home.'

The man appeared to collapse, his voice chastened now and whispery. ‘Yes, you're right – I'm sorry. She ran away from my mother's house for just that very reason – must have felt unsettled there and become desperate to track me down. But I've been in Tenerife – a little break from this dismal English weather, although now I curse the day I ever went. My silly cow of a mother didn't dare to tell me that Frou-Frou had sneaked off. She knew I'd go berserk, you see, and probably take it out on her. But if only I'd known, I'd have flown back straight away, of course.' Strangling a sob, he continued in a wail, ‘When I think that I've been lying on a
beach, sunning my stupid self, while my darling dog was wandering the streets.'

Adam opened his mouth to object, when suddenly the fellow seemed to totter on the step.

‘Oh, Lord!' he whimpered. ‘I'm feeling awfully faint. It's the shock, I'm sure – first the huge relief, then this crushing blow. May I come in a moment? My heart's not all that brilliant and I think I'm—'

Adam pulled him hastily inside, closed the door and steered him towards the nearest seat. He didn't want the blame for a cardiac arrest, on top of all his other problems.

‘My name's Tyrone,' the fellow said, appearing to recover suspiciously fast, once he was ensconced in an armchair, sipping a cup of coffee and munching a ginger-nut.

‘I'm Adam.'

‘Pleased to meet you, Adam. I just wish we could have met in less tragic circumstances. But, look, I want to hear every single detail of how you found my Frou-Frou – where she was, what state she was in, how long it took before—'

‘Sorry,' Adam said, ‘but we can't waste time on that. What you need to do – and do this very instant – is get down to the police station and tell them she's gone missing again.'

‘You mean, you haven't told them yourself? But that's completely irresponsible! Where's your conscience, your basic sense of duty?' Tyrone sprang to his feet, knocking over his cup of coffee, which spread in a dark stain across the immaculate cream carpet.

‘Fucking hell!' Adam ran to fetch a cloth and began scrubbing at the stain with the same anger as he berated his accuser. ‘For Christ's sake, stop insulting me! I was out all hours last night, looking for your bloody dog, and as for this morning, I haven't had a minute to myself.'

Too true. He'd been up since the bloody crack of dawn, for his 8 a.m. appointment at the poodle-parlour. OK,
he
was to blame for not having groomed the dog. Its complicated double-coat needed daily brushing and, if neglected, became matted and unkempt. Phil had examined all the knots with obvious disapproval; finally advising him to seek help from the professionals.

‘Look, I'm sorry about the coffee,' Tyrone had the grace to say, although the concession was short-lived, since in seconds he was back on the offensive. ‘But I still think you've been extraordinarily selfish, not to mention heartless. In fact, I don't know how you slept a wink last night, knowing—'

‘Get out of my flat – this minute!' Adam interrupted, raising a clenched fist. It had the desired effect, since the lily-livered fellow rocketed out of his chair and charged headlong through the door. Adam watched from the window, as he went panting down the street to his monstrosity of a car: a long, low, vulgar limo, the exact colour of his shirt.

Once he'd scorched away, Adam stormed back to the
sitting-room
and gave the carpet a second vigorous drubbing, before dumping his ruined breakfast in the bin. His mind was churning with a nauseous mixture of anger, guilt, self-doubt and indecision. Why, in God's name, had he told that string of lies, instead of simply returning the dog? Tyrone must be loaded, judging by his car, and would have shelled out a fat reward – maybe even doubled it when he heard his precious animal was being pampered at Posh Pets. Did he really want to keep her, now that all hope of a romance with an entrancing female owner had blown up in his face? Besides, the creature had outstayed her welcome. There were claw-marks on his best new leather sofa, scratches on the paintwork, muddy footprints right here on the kitchen floor. OK, he enjoyed her company, but was she worth the mess she caused, not to mention the increasing cost? Just today's session at Posh Pets would set him back a cool £50.

In fact, it was almost time to fetch her. They'd given him the earliest slot – the only one available – which meant he'd had to sacrifice his usual Saturday lie-in. Not that weekend lie-ins were likely when you were saddled with a dog – another reason he should have told Tyrone exactly where she was, and let
him
collect her and pay the bloody bill. Maybe he could hare down to the police station, nab the bloke before he left, and report the news that Frou-Frou had returned. It would mean another lie, of course: she'd come back in such a bedraggled state, his only option had been to take her to a dog-groomer.

Would Tyrone believe it? He didn't really care. What bothered
him far more was the thought of actually parting with Charmayne. Whatever the hassle and the aggro, they had in truth developed a close bond; spent almost every minute together; working as a duo in the office; watching sport in the evenings, before trotting down to the pub for a pint and a game of darts, then back to the pub at weekends. Indeed, the dog was quite a star among his drinking pals, and he'd noticed several dishy women observing him with interest (which they'd never done before), simply because he owned a cutesy dog.