Rescue Me: An uplifting romantic comedy perfect for dog-lovers Read online

  Will didn’t add that most of them were completely dysfunctional because the therapy had invaded every aspect of their lives, instead of improving it.

  ‘Well, you have made a lot of progress,’ Roland conceded. ‘Put a lot of work in, and I don’t say that lightly because it’s been challenging at times, accessing memories that have been buried for so long.’

  Which was another reason why Will deserved time off for good behaviour. A year ago, he’d been a shell, a husk. Burned out. Not fit for purpose. And now? Now, he might still be on a fact-finding mission to discover who he was, but he certainly wasn’t any of the things that he used to be. ‘I have come a long way.’

  ‘And the panic attacks have abated?’

  ‘Haven’t had one for months.’

  ‘And your GP agreed that you could come off the antidepressants?’

  Will nodded. ‘I started reducing the dose about five months ago, stopped taking them completely two months ago.’

  ‘And you’re ready to make the emotional connections that have been missing in your life?’

  Of course Roland saved the most difficult question for last. ‘Making emotional connections really isn’t a priority for me right now.’

  ‘But I thought the lack of emotional connections, your inability to connect with people in a deep, meaningful way, is what we’ve spent the last year working on?’ Roland glanced down at his pad and the copious notes that he’d been scribbling.

  ‘I’ve emotionally reconnected with my family over the last year. That has to count for something,’ Will insisted. He’d left home over twenty years ago and hadn’t felt the need to return that often. After three years at Manchester University and a first-class degree in international finance, economics and business, Will had been headhunted by a global investment bank. They’d funded an MBA at Wharton Business School in Philadelphia and after that there’d been five years working in their Berlin office, three years in Paris and a brief stint in Hong Kong before he’d been transferred to New York then subsequently poached by New York’s largest privately owned investment bank.

  It had been a glittering career by anyone’s standards. There’d been performance-related bonuses and corner apartments with iconic views, each one bigger than the last. It was a world away from the family home and the family florist in Muswell Hill.

  Of course, Will had dutifully phoned his mother, Mary, every Sunday morning. And he’d been back for hatches, matches and, more recently and tragically, despatches. Less infrequently, they’d come to visit him. So, yes, he had a family. He liked them. But it turned out that he liked them a lot more when there was a wide expanse of sea and several time zones between them.

  This last year, Will had seen his family on a daily basis. And although he was meant to be on a career sabbatical, he’d somehow ended up working in the family business. Roland should give him props for that, and also for managing not to kill his half-sister, Sage, who hadn’t even been thought of when Will had first left home, and who made being annoying into an art form.

  ‘Of course, family ties are important, defining, as are the family ties we break.’ Roland folded his arms, but Will wasn’t going to wander down that particular path again. He folded his arms too and made sure to maintain eye contact with Roland until his therapist sighed. ‘So, Will, remind me of your last romantic relationship? The woman who hit you with her shoe?’

  Roland had many admirable qualities, but his total recall of some of the more humiliating moments of Will’s life wasn’t one of them. ‘Dovinda? She didn’t hit me with her shoe, she threw her shoe at me,’ he clarified. ‘And we weren’t in a relationship. We were just seeing each other. Dating. That’s what you do in New York.’

  They’d been through this. Several times.

  ‘So, no one in New York is in a relationship? How . . . odd.’ Roland, face still stuck in neutral, shook his head. ‘Remind me why Dovinda threw her shoe at you?’

  Will had walked right into this one. ‘Because she wanted to transition towards being in a relationship and I thought we both understood that although we enjoyed hanging out together, and yes, having sex with each other, that was as far as it went.’

  ‘This has been a recurring pattern in your relationships with women,’ Roland noted, writing something in his pad.

  ‘Again, they weren’t relationships.’

  They’d been through a lot in this room. Between 6 p.m. and 6.50 p.m. every Thursday evening, Will had confronted hidden truths, long-buried secrets, voiced things that he never thought he would. There’d been pain, raw emotion, even tears, but breaking up with Roland might be the hardest thing yet.

  Also, Roland was wrong. Will’s avoidance of deep, emotional connections with other people had nothing to do with the defining moment of his life, which had brought him to Roland’s consulting room. When he’d lain on a trolley in an ER cubicle at New York Presbyterian Hospital, convinced that he was having a heart attack. And OK, he’d lived in New York for over five years and there wasn’t a single person that Will had felt he could call, but that hadn’t been the issue. The issue had been that he had a glittering career, a fancy Tribeca apartment, lots of money in the bank, all the latest tech, gadgets and expensive trainers, but suddenly the most important thing in his life was a gnawing, stabbing, desolate pain in his chest. The dynamic, successful, driven person he’d forced himself to become no longer existed and he’d reverted back to being a terrified, powerless twelve-year-old that—

  Roland cleared his throat and Will was back in the room, back in his present, which was so much better than his recent past. ‘You’ve come back from a very difficult set of personal circumstances and bedded down with your family this last year, so obviously you can make and need emotional connections, despite your claims to the contrary. But outside of family, I want you, off the top of your head, to name one other person in your life who you’ve ever felt a connection with,’ Roland suddenly demanded, and immediately Will could feel panic rising in him, like bile. ‘Someone who you weren’t afraid to be vulnerable with. Someone you loved unconditionally.’

  There wasn’t one. But even so, there was an answer that immediately came to mind. ‘Muttley,’ he said without hesitation. ‘Dogs count too, right?’

  Just thinking of his childhood dog, a Jack Russell crossed with god knows what, put a smile on his face. Muttley had been his constant companion. He’d walk Will to school then be waiting when he got out. They’d spent hours playing endless games of fetch. And there’d been other hours, in the dark, when Will had whispered his secret worries and fears to the dog and pressed his face into his warm, dank fur when he could feel the tears starting.

  That was love. That had to be love. But . . .

  ‘I’m not getting a dog!’ Will stated very firmly.

  Roland raised his eyebrows by a couple of millimetres. ‘No one’s suggesting that you get a dog.’

  ‘Getting a dog, even fostering a dog is a huge commitment. Huge.’

  ‘No one’s telling you to foster a dog either.’ Roland sighed again. The clock was showing that it was fifty minutes past the hour and it was time for Will to say his final goodbyes.

  But he didn’t want to leave things unresolved, which only went to show how much he’d grown as a person. ‘Maybe I could take a dog for a walk sometimes. Volunteer at a rescue?’ Will frowned. ‘What would be the harm in that?’

  Given the solemnity of the moment, Roland frowned too. It was the most animated that Will had ever seen him. He waited for Roland’s goodbye speech, which, as ever, would be insightful and thought-provoking.

  Roland put down his pen all the better to give Will one last incisive look. ‘I’m sure I’ll be able to find you a slot when you want to resume our sessions,’ he said with a slightly wistful smile. ‘Until then, good luck.’

  3

  Margot

  ‘I am kind. I am strong. I am positive. I attract kind, strong, positive people into my life. I am deserving of love. I am a great dog owner.’


  Usually Margot tried to be more effusive with her daily affirmations, which painted a picture of the very best version of herself and sent it out into the universe to be transformed into truth. But she was in the back of an Uber – the driver had already taken offence when she asked him to swap Talk FM for Magic – and she was with her best friend Tracy, and Tracy didn’t really get the whole positive affirmation thing.

  As the BeeGees insisted that they should be dancing, yeah, Margot took a couple of steadying breaths. She was just as terrified as she was before one of her innumerable blind dates. Actually, more terrified, because lately the only feeling she got before heading out to meet yet another man from yet another dating app was the grim resignation that he probably wouldn’t be The One. That he’d give her the old up-and-down and not bother to hide either his dismay or the lecherous belief that she wasn’t his One either, but would do for his One Night Stand.

  But a dog wouldn’t care that Margot was a size sixteen or that she was two weeks late to get her roots done or that she’d spilt coffee on the ‘Strong Girls Club’ sweatshirt she was wearing and only noticed by the time she’d already left the house. A dog would know that was all superficial stuff, and the stuff that mattered – Margot’s soul, her heart and her innate sense of doing right – was in perfect condition.

  ‘I’m so nervous,’ she said to Tracy. ‘What if none of the dogs like me.’

  ‘Odds on, there has to be at least one that likes you.’ Tracy patted Margot’s hand perfunctorily.

  They’d been friends since they’d met at fashion college, eighteen years before, Tracy just off the plane from New Zealand where ‘there’s a lot of sheep, not very much in the way of cutting-edge fashion’.

  Back then, Tracy had a buzzcut, a lip piercing and had been terrifyingly forthright on first acquaintance. Time and Margot had softened her. She’d let her auburn hair grow out and ditched the lip piercing, although she was still inordinately fond of a DM boot, leopard print and a strong opinion.

  ‘Anyway, this is why I’m here. You’re too emotionally unbalanced after meeting up with George to make any life-changing decisions on your own.’

  ‘I can’t believe I wasted two crucial years of my fertility window on him,’ Margot said. Tracy sighed. Not just in agreement but because Margot had been revisiting that theme all week and it was wearing thin.

  ‘You’ll be fine. The doggies will love you, of course they will,’ Tracy insisted, possibly to ward off any more talk of George. ‘Are we nearly there yet?’

  ‘There’ was a local dog shelter. Obviously Margot was going to adopt rather than shop. She knew what it was like to be abandoned and made to feel as if you weren’t good enough. Margot had filled out a rehoming questionnaire and passed her home visit with flying colours because, as she affirmed daily, she was a kind, caring, positive person. Though what had really swung it was that she had a back garden, even if it was the size of a postage stamp. A smaller than standard-sized postage stamp. It had also helped that Margot had said she was going to take the dog into work with her every day, which was slightly stretching the truth. Or rather, it was stretching the truth so far that when you held it up to the light, the truth became completely transparent because both her bosses, Derek and Tansy, had said that there was no way she could bring a dog to work with her. But Margot was sure they’d change their minds. They’d initially been very resistant to work-from-home Wednesdays but they’d come round eventually.

  Anyway, time enough to worry about that. Right now, as the Uber careered around the streets of North London, bunny-hopping over speed bumps, Margot tried to manifest the perfect dog. Something cute and Instagrammable, possibly fluffy, hopefully portable and definitely house-trained. Margot was leaning towards maybe a small cockapoo as the car pulled up outside a long, low building just off the A41 in Barnet.

  ‘I am a great dog owner,’ Margot muttered under her breath as she got out of the car.

  Her doggy destiny awaited.

  The reception area was quite utilitarian because it was a charity and they clearly didn’t have money to fritter away on sofas or a lick of paint on the nicotine yellow walls. But the volunteer waiting for them had a huge smile on her face and said fervently, ‘I’m Sophie. Thank you so much for considering a rescue dog.’

  Sophie was a young woman with bright orange dreadlocks, tattoos and a no-nonsense air, so Margot didn’t dare say that she wanted a dog that would look good on the Gram. Or fill up the hole in her heart that had been carved out by every man that had passed her over, and more recently, Percy’s perfidy.

  Sophie pulled open a set of doors and Margot’s nostrils were immediately hit by the stench of ammonia, even as she recoiled from the noise of what sounded like a hundred dogs barking. It was so much more brutal than she’d imagined. She’d pictured something more heart-warming than this . . . this . . . dog prison.

  Each dog was kept in a small enclosure, a cage really, with hard stone floors and harsh fluorescent lighting. No wonder that they jumped up, scrabbling at the bars that held them captive, desperate to get Margot’s attention as she walked past them.

  ‘Kennels can be very distressing for a lot of dogs,’ Sophie explained. ‘Especially the owner surrenders. They don’t understand why they’ve gone from living with someone in a comfortable house to suddenly being here on their own.’

  ‘It’s so sad,’ Margot breathed, and though she was here for the cute, there was something tempting about every dog that she walked past. For a couple of minutes, she was quite taken with an elderly white French bulldog that snuffled at her hands, but Tracy pulled her away.

  ‘Frenchies are completely overbred and riddled with health problems. Our neighbours have a Frenchie. The poor thing can’t even drink water without bringing it back up.’ She fixed a wilting Margot with a stern look. ‘You have to be practical, Margs. The vet bills would bankrupt you.’

  There weren’t any cockapoos, but there were a lot of Staffordshire Bull Terriers. Margot definitely didn’t want one of those. She didn’t like to judge, but whenever there was a dog attack in the papers, the culprit always seemed to be a ‘Bull-Terrier-like dog’ and certainly the ones in these kennels lunged for Margot when she approached.

  ‘They’re just being friendly,’ Sophie said, though Margot doubted it. ‘I know they get a bad press, but Staffies are actually one of only three breeds that the Kennel Club particularly recommends for families with children.’

  ‘Really,’ Margot said in what she hoped was a noncommittal voice.

  ‘Yes. Here’s a fun fact for you, more people seek hospital treatment after being bitten by Labradors than by Staffies,’ Sophie said, which wasn’t as comforting as she seemed to think it was.

  They were coming to the last kennel now and although Margot had seen lots of dogs who’d tugged on her heartstrings, she was yet to find the dog that could steal her heart.

  The final kennel was empty, but even so, Margot stopped to read the card with its former occupant’s vital statistics on it.

  Name: Blossom

  Age: 3-ish

  Breed: Staffordshire Bull Terrier

  Notes: Picked up as a stray and unclaimed from the council pound. Nervous around men. Highly food motivated. Can’t live with cats. Blossom just wants to be loved!

  ‘Oh my God, Margot,’ Tracy hissed. ‘It’s your spirit animal.’

  Margot put her hand on her heart to check that it was still there because now there was a distinct possibility that it might have been stolen.

  ‘This one . . .’ but before she could ask where Blossom was, Margot realised that the kennel wasn’t empty. Cowering right at the back was a little white Staffy, shaking like it was a freezing winter’s day rather than unseasonably warm for late September.

  Margot crouched down and held out her hand. ‘Hello,’ she said softly. ‘Do you want to come and say hello?’

  This would have been Percy’s cue to fly at Margot with claws unsheathed and teeth bared but Blossom merely li
fted her head.

  ‘Oh, you are so pretty,’ Margot cooed, and it was the greatest validation she’d ever received when the little dog slowly stood up and tremulously approached. ‘What a special, precious little girl.’

  Blossom had big brown eyes that looked as if they’d been ringed with thick kohl by a top make-up artist. They were fixed on Margot warily as she came right up to the bars and tentatively stuck out her tongue to lick Margot’s proffered fingers.

  Margot stroked the dog’s cheek and Blossom rubbed against the bars of her cage as if she was desperate to get closer to her. Margot didn’t want a Staffy. She wasn’t convinced that they were great family pets and they were hardly fluffy and portable. But Blossom was staring up at her with soulful brown eyes and it wouldn’t do any harm to take her out of her kennel for a little walk. Just so she could stretch her legs.

  ‘I’ll stay behind,’ Tracy said with a frown. ‘But, remember, no rash decisions.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Margot agreed as Sophie clipped a lead on to Blossom’s collar.

  Blossom was very skittish as they ran the gauntlet of the other dogs, who all upped their barking at the sight of one of their number staging a breakout. She tried to hide behind Margot, her head bumping into the back of her legs, until they got outside.

  The kennels were on the edge of woodlands and once they were out of earshot of the barking, Blossom walked beautifully alongside Margot, pausing occasionally to look up at her with those cartoon-like eyes. She was built like a barrel, all shoulders and ribcage, resting on short legs that seemed delicate by comparison; her slightly bandy back legs resembling a fragile wishbone. She wasn’t all white either. Her snout was white but the top of her head and her floppy ears were fawn. Her back was fawn with white splodges, one of them in the shape of Italy, and her tail was fawn too, apart from the tip, which looked as if it had been dipped in a can of white paint.