Linda Phillips - Puppies Are For Life

Linda Phillips

Cover

Title Page PUPPIES ARE FOR LIFE Linda Phillips

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

After the first major row of their married lives Susannah and Paul Harding slunk separately to their bedroom and spent the night back to back.

In the morning they glared into their muesli bowls, cast agonised glances at their watches, and dashed out to their respective cars. She didn’t remind him that he’d left his sandwiches in the fridge. And he didn’t tell her about the mascara on her cheek.

But he did mutter something about seeing a doctor.

I do not need to see a doctor , she fumed silently as she scrubbed at her face in the office cloakroom later that morning. All I need is an understanding husband.

Then, much to the dismay of her friend Molly, who happened to be applying lipstick beside her, she burst into helpless tears.

‘I thought everything was hunky dory these days,’ said Molly, steering her red-eyed companion away from the row of chipped china sinks and along the concrete corridors of C & G Electronics in the direction of the canteen.

‘Everything’s fine,’ Susannah tried to assure her friend. ‘It’s just me, being very silly. Oh lord, what’s Duffy doing there? I don’t want him to see me like this.’

Mr Duffy, their boss, was hovering by the Flexi machine.

‘Just checking up on us.’ Molly grunted. ‘Has to make sure we checked out before we powdered our noses.’ She pushed through the doors of the canteen where a strong combination of boiled cabbage and chips assailed them, and quickly changed course for the salad bar.

‘Things don’t sound fine to me,’ she said, picking up a tray.

‘Well, they are,’ Susannah insisted. She eyed limp brown lettuce leaves through the Perspex display unit, opted for grated carrot with watercress, and shuffled listlessly on. ‘Buying the cottage was the best thing we ever did. It’s been lovely decorating and settling in; wonderful to have no one to please but ourselves. We can watch what we like on the television, go for Sunday lunch at a pub. It’s wonderful … only –’ Her pale face clouded over.

‘So what’s the problem?’ Molly prompted when they had paid up and threaded their way to a vacant table. Dumping her tray among the previous occupant’s debris she settled her majestic figure on one of the chairs. ‘No, don’t tell me,’ she said, raising her hands, ‘let me guess. Er … the authentic gnarled old beams have got woodworm? Or the Aga’s set fire to the thatch?’

Susannah flapped a hand at her friend, smiling a little in spite of herself. ‘Of course not! Would the surveyor have passed it if it had woodworm? And you know we didn’t go for an Aga.’

‘Oh, you know I’m only jealous.’ Molly grinned, tossing her head, and then her face grew serious. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me what’s really wrong, Sue?’

Susannah bit her lip. Could she tell Molly about the row? Would it help to get it out of her system? The scene had been replaying itself in her mind all through the night and most of the morning too. It was still so horribly vivid …

News at Ten had been blasting out its closing music when she’d wandered into the sitting room.

‘There!’ she’d said proudly, holding out the product of many hours’ hard work. Her back ached; so did her head. It had all been worth it, though – because she could see now that she might actually make a success of this thing, given time. ‘Well, Paul, do you like it? What do you honestly think?’

Paul yawned widely and stood up, unfolding himself from one of the chintz armchairs until his hair brushed the low beamed ceiling.

‘What is it?’ he asked, stretching and yawning again, and looking as though he wished he’d gone to bed hours ago.

‘Well, you can see what it is. It’s a teapot stand. Made out of mosaic tiles. I’ve just finished it.’

Paul blinked and looked more closely. ‘Ah,’ was his only comment.

‘Is that all you have to say, Ah ?’ Susannah glared first at her husband, then at the article in her hand. ‘What’s wrong with it then?’

‘Um …’ He scratched the back of his head and cast her a sideways glance. ‘You do want an honest opinion?’

‘Of course,’ she replied, not meaning it, and something inside her went phut.

‘Well,’ he said, frowning, ‘it’s a bit – I don’t know. What’s the word – crude, maybe?’

‘Crude? Crude? What do you mean, crude? This, I’ll have you know, happens to be based on a Graeco-Roman design!’

‘Is that so?’ He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans, rocked back on his bony heels and treated her to one of his crooked, most supercilious little smiles. ‘And did they actually have teapots in those days, do you think?’

‘What? Who? Oh, you – aargh!’ She snarled furiously, and flung it at his grinning head. It missed by inches and hit the wall, making a gash in the new magnolia silk-finish before bursting out of its wooden frame.

It was still lying in pieces on the carpet back at home, as shattered as her dreams.

No, Susannah decided, she couldn’t tell Molly all that; it was somehow much too private. Ignoring her salad she leaned forward on her elbows.

‘Actually,’ she said, ‘we had a bit of a barney last night, Paul and I.’

‘You and –?’ Molly’s eyes grew round. ‘Good heavens.’

‘Yes. It’s not like us, is it? Well, it wasn’t exactly Paul’s doing, really; more my fault, I suppose.’

‘Never accept the blame for anything,’ was Molly’s prompt advice. ‘Takes two to tango, remember.’ She chewed thoughtfully on a bread roll, as though a picture of Paul doing a tango – all knotty knees and elbows – had temporarily taken her attention.

‘Mmm …’ Susannah was considering her friend’s advice. She wished she could be assertive like Molly. And wasn’t that just her problem? There had been few occasions in her life when she had held out for what she believed to be right. Normally she was placid and easy-going, doing herself down, deferring to others for the sake of a quiet life. She hated scenes; it was only when pushed to extremes that she was inclined to dig in her heels and say all manner of things that she wouldn’t have dreamed of saying in the normal course of events.

One such incident came to mind right now – one that she had long since lived to regret, because parents were always right in the long run, weren’t they? At eighteen she had defied her father and refused to re-sit a history A-level that she had badly failed. What was the point, she’d wanted to know? Taking after her mother, she was hopelessly non-academic; she would never achieve a pass. She might as well give up any idea she might have had about going to college.

Her father had been livid. A teacher at the boys’ part of the grammar school she attended, and struggling for excellence in all things so that he might one day make it to headmaster, it was hardly surprising that he did not take kindly to his daughter’s new-found independence. But Susannah had stuck to her guns. She left school with her one A-level in Art and launched herself into the job market, landing – to her delight – a reasonably well-paid clerical job with a travel agent. Those were the days! Money in her purse. Clothes. The swinging sixties. And she had met Paul.