Lost Dogs and Lonely Hearts by Lucy Dillon Page B

in his blue eyes, as if he half-expected her to write a cheque and flounce away from the problem. Rachel hadn’t told him that she didn’t have any choice in the matter; with no job and no old life, it wasn’t a matter of ‘honouring Dot’s legacy’ – this was her job now. Until she sorted something else out.
    ‘That’s about the size of it. He speaks his mind, George.’ Megan flicked through the clear plastic envelope of posters. ‘Ah, we’ve saved the best for last – Chester. Look at that sad face! People’ll be sobbing all over the surgery. I love these posters, by the way. You’ve really got a way with words.’
    Rachel didn’t tell Megan she’d spent the last six months working on a million-pound PR campaign for a new music download website; already that seemed like a different life. Instead, she allowed herself a wonky smile, and said, ‘Thanks. To be honest, they made me cry a bit. Which I guess means they’re working.’
    The posters, made on the kitchen table the previous night, weren’t flashy, but they were effective: handwritten ‘wanted: new owner’ headlines, with Polaroids of the dogs, and pleas from them, partly nicked from Dot’s tags. Rachel had used every shameless PR trick she could think of to pluck at Longhampton’s heartstrings.
    ‘And you’re going to do us a website?’ Megan went on, excited.
    ‘I can’t believe you don’t have one already,’ said Rachel. ‘I can find someone who’ll do that very cheap. It’ll help with the boarding too.’
    ‘You know, you’re amazing, especially considering you’ve just come out of a bad relationship breakdown,’ started Megan, but Rachel stopped her, embarrassed.
    ‘Look, I really haven’t done anything yet. Where next?’ she asked, letting Gem off the lead so she could throw a ball for him, as a reward for his good behaviour.
    ‘The surgery,’ said Megan. ‘I’ve put posters in there before – we have a cake stall in the foyer, once a month. And Dr Carthy, who’s in charge, he’s a big dog lover. Used to tell Dot that whenever an old racing greyhound came in, she was to call him. He’s got two now. Used to have six. One used to sleep in a corner of his consulting room!’
    ‘Wow,’ said Rachel. Gem dropped the ball at her feet, pausing to pant at her, and she hurled it away again.
    Her right arm was getting sore but, masochistically, she didn’t mind. The look on Gem’s face, just as eager every time, made up for it. Rachel couldn’t communicate with Gem like Dot probably had, but this was a tiny way of offering something to their very unequal relationship, a small return for the patient nights he’d spent already, waiting by the door, listening to her broken sleep and making her feel a little less alone in the strange new life she’d found herself in.
     
    Longhampton Park Surgery was a modern building with ramps and big windows and neat concrete boxes of red geraniums on every available flat surface. As Megan and Rachel approached, they saw a lanky girl in a white receptionist’s uniform helping a wheelchair-bound lady down the ramp, bending over her like a mother hen.
    Or a mother heron, Rachel corrected herself. She was all long arms and tanned legs.
    ‘Oh, look at the lovely dogs!’ the girl said cheerily, pushing back a long blonde ponytail. ‘You had one of those Jack Russells, didn’t you, Ida?’
    ‘Till I moved into the home, I did.’ The old lady stretched out her hand towards Bonham, the short-legged terrier who’d been dragging Rachel all round the park. He shied back, tucking his tail downwards. ‘Hello, chap.’
    Rachel felt awkward, as if he was a child showing her up in a supermarket. ‘Bonham,’ she said, ‘don’t be rude. I’m sorry, he’s a bit grumpy.’
    ‘Oh, he’s fine, he just needs to have a sniff,’ said the old lady, leaving her crooked fingers dangling, and sure enough Bonham began to edge forward, approaching her chair with tiny steps, until he was near enough