she thought, she would send the appeal directly to some famous tweeters – Jonathan Ross, Caitlin Moran – people with many thousands of followers, just as Lewis had told her to.
Amy and Boris got out at Waterloo – it was a pain having to go to Waterloo, then go home, then back again, but she needed Boris with her now – and boarded a South West train heading out of town. Twenty-five minutes later the train pulled into St Margarets station and Amy led Boris up the steps to the street. She turned right and headed purposefully towards the park – she had already memorized the directions.
‘Very chi-chi, Boris, isn’t it?’ she said, taking in the flower shops and artisan delis.
She reached the mini-roundabout she’d seen on the map, and nerves clumped in a tight ball in her stomach – that meant that Ross’s office should be … just …
here
. She looked along the row of shops and at the brass plates on the doors between them. There it was: Malone Associates.
She and Boris hurried over a zebra crossing and, trying not to look anxiously around her, she wondered what time exactly Ross took Wiggins for his afternoon walk. She had assumed a vague ‘after lunch’ sort of time, but that could be completely wrong.
The park was extremely pretty – a vast sweep of lawns with the backdrop of an imposing white Palladian villa. She looked around. The only dogs she could see nearby were a fat placid black Labrador, and an excitable Lakeland terrier racing after sticks.
Boris whined and strained at the lead, so she jogged with him along the path. The Lakeland terrier ran up to them and sniffed Boris, then its owner, a kind-looking ruddy-faced man in a Barbour, smiled apologetically at Amy. Then, in a flash of black and white, a cocker spaniel streaked over and joined in. Amy’s heart jumped. There was no sign of his owner. He was a nice dog, glossy and enthusiastic, smiling gleefully in the way that spaniels did. He and the Lakeland ran in delighted circles for a few minutes, and Amy and the ruddy-faced man stood watching, like parents at the school gates.
‘Haven’t seen him before,’ said the man, nodding down at Boris. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Boris,’ Amy said. ‘No, we don’t live here – we’re just, um, visiting. So you know all the regulars, do you?’
‘You get to know their names, yes,’ the man said, turning his foot over to rub a small clod of mud off the side of his shoe. He sounded extraordinarily posh. ‘That’s Wiggins.’
Amy tried to contain her excitement.
‘Oh, and there’s his owner,’ said the man, pointing with a chubby finger towards the path. Amy followed his gaze.
The man on the path looked absolutely nothing like his photograph on CupidsWeb. Amy thought she’d never have recognized him had it not been for the help of the ruddy-faced man. Ross’s profile had said he was five foot eleven, but this man was no more than five foot eight. His web presence – photos on both his own website and CupidsWeb – had depicted him looking healthy, clean-shaven and well coiffed, but the person walking towards her now was anything but. He was a physical wreck – greyish stubble, bowed shoulders flecked with dandruff, vast puffy bags under his eyes.
‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ Ruddy-Faced Man called out to him, and he nodded back. ‘Right, must get on with it. Come here, Jimi! After Jimi Hendrix,’ he explained to Amy as the terrier bounded over. ‘Nice to have met you.’ He smiled over his shoulder as he headed towards the park gates.
Ross ignored Amy, even though they were only standing a few feet apart. Blimey, she thought, he doesn’t look as if he could motivate anyone. She wandered as casually as she could up to him, grateful to the ruddy-faced man for having effected an introduction
‘So, Wiggins is yours, is he? That man over there just told me his name. He’s lovely. Have you had him long?’
Ross met her gaze, and for the first time she recognized him from his
Amy and Boris got out at Waterloo – it was a pain having to go to Waterloo, then go home, then back again, but she needed Boris with her now – and boarded a South West train heading out of town. Twenty-five minutes later the train pulled into St Margarets station and Amy led Boris up the steps to the street. She turned right and headed purposefully towards the park – she had already memorized the directions.
‘Very chi-chi, Boris, isn’t it?’ she said, taking in the flower shops and artisan delis.
She reached the mini-roundabout she’d seen on the map, and nerves clumped in a tight ball in her stomach – that meant that Ross’s office should be … just …
here
. She looked along the row of shops and at the brass plates on the doors between them. There it was: Malone Associates.
She and Boris hurried over a zebra crossing and, trying not to look anxiously around her, she wondered what time exactly Ross took Wiggins for his afternoon walk. She had assumed a vague ‘after lunch’ sort of time, but that could be completely wrong.
The park was extremely pretty – a vast sweep of lawns with the backdrop of an imposing white Palladian villa. She looked around. The only dogs she could see nearby were a fat placid black Labrador, and an excitable Lakeland terrier racing after sticks.
Boris whined and strained at the lead, so she jogged with him along the path. The Lakeland terrier ran up to them and sniffed Boris, then its owner, a kind-looking ruddy-faced man in a Barbour, smiled apologetically at Amy. Then, in a flash of black and white, a cocker spaniel streaked over and joined in. Amy’s heart jumped. There was no sign of his owner. He was a nice dog, glossy and enthusiastic, smiling gleefully in the way that spaniels did. He and the Lakeland ran in delighted circles for a few minutes, and Amy and the ruddy-faced man stood watching, like parents at the school gates.
‘Haven’t seen him before,’ said the man, nodding down at Boris. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Boris,’ Amy said. ‘No, we don’t live here – we’re just, um, visiting. So you know all the regulars, do you?’
‘You get to know their names, yes,’ the man said, turning his foot over to rub a small clod of mud off the side of his shoe. He sounded extraordinarily posh. ‘That’s Wiggins.’
Amy tried to contain her excitement.
‘Oh, and there’s his owner,’ said the man, pointing with a chubby finger towards the path. Amy followed his gaze.
The man on the path looked absolutely nothing like his photograph on CupidsWeb. Amy thought she’d never have recognized him had it not been for the help of the ruddy-faced man. Ross’s profile had said he was five foot eleven, but this man was no more than five foot eight. His web presence – photos on both his own website and CupidsWeb – had depicted him looking healthy, clean-shaven and well coiffed, but the person walking towards her now was anything but. He was a physical wreck – greyish stubble, bowed shoulders flecked with dandruff, vast puffy bags under his eyes.
‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ Ruddy-Faced Man called out to him, and he nodded back. ‘Right, must get on with it. Come here, Jimi! After Jimi Hendrix,’ he explained to Amy as the terrier bounded over. ‘Nice to have met you.’ He smiled over his shoulder as he headed towards the park gates.
Ross ignored Amy, even though they were only standing a few feet apart. Blimey, she thought, he doesn’t look as if he could motivate anyone. She wandered as casually as she could up to him, grateful to the ruddy-faced man for having effected an introduction
‘So, Wiggins is yours, is he? That man over there just told me his name. He’s lovely. Have you had him long?’
Ross met her gaze, and for the first time she recognized him from his
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