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can hardly believe she’s about to call a man about a dog. It feels like one of those rash things people do post-break-up, like sleeping with a platonic male friend or having an extravagant tattoo. Of course, her dog-owning credentials are impeccable: Not averse to walking/being outdoors. Not especially house-proud so won’t freak out at sight of odd dog hair/muddy paw print. Works from home so dog won’t be left alone for long periods. Has two dog-loving children so lashings of affection and fuss guaranteed …

      Yet what if Buddy doesn’t like fuss, or children for that matter? He sounds perfect – ‘Adorable, loving and well-behaved dog seeks happy family home’, the ad read – but say they don’t click? Over a week has passed since Kerry scribbled down the owner’s number. In the aftermath of Rob’s announcement, and being unable to face him last weekend – even though he wanted to come down to Shorling for ‘a proper chat’ with the children – her energies have been consumed by trying to maintain a sense of normality, while dealing with Freddie and Mia’s persistent questions about when they’ll next see their dad.

      ‘Soon,’ she keeps saying. ‘Daddy and I just need to talk, then we’ll figure out the regular days you’ll be with him. You’ll still see him lots, I promise. It won’t be that different from before.’ Yeah, right.

      In fact, Kerry had forgotten about the dog until she’d discovered the scrap of paper bearing the phone number in a jeans pocket this morning. Unable to face making lunch, she taps out the number.

      ‘Hello?’ The male voice is abrupt.

      ‘Hi, erm … I’m probably too late about this,’ Kerry starts, ‘but I saw the ad for your dog …’

      ‘Oh yes, he’s still here if you’re interested …’

      ‘Could you possibly tell me a bit more about him?’

      She hears an intake of breath. ‘Why don’t you just come over and meet him? Are you local?’

      ‘Yes, we’re down at the seafront …’

      ‘Sorry,’ he says briskly, ‘I’m just taking a quick lunchbreak – would tomorrow be okay? I can arrange to be at home if I know you’re coming.’ Kerry pauses, rapidly losing her nerve. ‘If you think he might be right for you, you can have him on loan to see how you get along,’ the man adds, which to Kerry’s mind sounds like the equivalent of meeting for coffee on a blind date, rather than committing to a whole evening in a restaurant.

      ‘I have a feeling that, once my children meet him, there’ll be no question of handing him back.’ She laughs, expecting a hint of warmth from this man who hasn’t even introduced himself. Yet there’s none. He’s clearly eager to finish the call.

      ‘Could you come around six-ish tomorrow?’ he asks.

      ‘I’d like to make it earlier, if that’s okay. If he seems right for us, I’d love to be able to surprise the children by taking him with me when I collect them from school …’ Now, surely, he’ll thaw a little.

      ‘Right … well, I suppose I could leave the shop for an hour or so … would two o’clock be okay?’

      ‘That’s perfect. I’m Kerry, by the way. Kerry Tambini.’

      ‘James,’ he says. And that’s that. God, Kerry thinks; he’s rehoming his dog. The way he spoke, anyone would think he’d advertised a dining table.

      Their cool exchange replays in her mind as she tries to pick up the melody she started to write this morning. Barely three bars of ‘Spread Your Wings’, her latest Cuckoo Clock offering, have been written, and now she is finding it impossible to focus. Buddy is threatening to bankrupt them before he’s even joined their family.

      At one thirty, her first pupil arrives, a reed-thin woman in a grey shift dress and heels, her fair hair secured in a neat French plait. After several minutes, Kerry surmises that she dutifully worked her way through the early grades as a child.

      ‘What made you want to start playing again?’ she asks, registering Jasmine’s perfect, peach-tinted manicure.

      ‘Oh, my modern dance classes have moved to another day,’ she says airily, ‘so I suddenly had a gap to fill on Thursday lunchtimes.’

      ‘Right.’ Kerry smiles, conscious now that the top she’s wearing is a little bobbly from the wash, and her own nails conspicuously bare. She sees Jasmine glancing around the music room, taking in the dated wallpaper with its pale lime floral design, and Aunt Maisie’s sun-faded blue velvet curtains, which had seemed perfectly acceptable this morning when she did a speedy Hoover and dust, but are now bleating ‘Replace me.’

      ‘It’s a funny old house, isn’t it?’ Jasmine asks as the lesson draws to a close.

      ‘Yes,’ Kerry agrees. ‘I know it so well, though, I suppose I’m kind of immune to its faults. It was my aunt’s place, you see. I spent most of my holidays here as a child.’

      Jasmine gives her an inscrutable look. ‘Well, I hope your husband’s good at DIY,’ she says with a chuckle.

      ‘Er, yes, he’s pretty handy.’ With twenty-year-old editorial assistants, especially. Shame he wasn’t as efficient at knocking up IKEA wardrobes in all the years we spent together …

      ‘He’s got his work cut out then,’ Jasmine observes.

      ‘He certainly does,’ Kerry says jovially, having acquired a twinge in her jaw from maintaining a perky smile. Jasmine pays her, hooks a cornflower-blue patent bag over her shoulder and steps over Freddie’s discarded Wagon Wheel wrapper which Kerry had omitted to pick up earlier.

      ‘Roof looks a bit of a worry,’ is Jasmine’s parting shot as Kerry sees her out.

      No, Kerry thinks as she closes the front door, that’s the least of my worries, actually, as long as it doesn’t fall off and crush someone …

      Realising that any attempts to continue with her ‘Spread Your Wings’ melody will be futile now, she stuffs her hair into a ponytail, throws on a baggy sweater over her top and heads for the town centre. It’s a breezy afternoon with a colourless sky and, with the main holiday season finished, Shorling has an air of stillness, as if something is definitely over. Kerry realises, too, that now she’s here among the numerous boutiques and gift shops, there’s nothing she actually needs or, crucially, can afford to buy. A sole, bleak thought – that she appears to have become a single parent – gnaws away at her brain as she glances at window displays of dead-eyed seagulls carved from driftwood. Why would anyone covet a hand-made model yacht with a price tag of £850? She considers stopping for a coffee instead of all this aimless ambling, but is wary of being spotted by one of those school gate mothers who have so far greeted her attempts to make conversation with chilly indifference.

      With a start, Kerry realises that she never used to worry so much about what people thought of her. However, these days she’d prefer to avoid being seen whiling away an empty afternoon in a cafe on her own. She can just imagine the murmurs as she waits outside school: That’s her, just moved into that clapped out old cottage that really needs a lick of paint. If we’re going to be in with a chance of winning Britain’s Prettiest Coastal Town she’d better sort it out …

      As faint rain starts to fall, Kerry finds herself being lured into the dusty warmth of the charity bookshop. This being Shorling, it’s posher than most new book stores, and the moss-green velvet sofas and aromatic candles raise her spirits a little. As everything’s meticulously categorised – none of your usual charity shop mish-mash – it’s easy to locate the pet section. Kerry retires to the plush reading area with Your First Dog: A Complete Guide by Jeremy Catchpole, installing herself in a squishy armchair. There’s a montage of extremely cute pups on the cover, but from that point things skid rapidly downhill. Kerry’s eyes light upon Behaviour and aggression: Remember that ANY dog is capable of snapping and biting if provoked. While she’s not planning on ‘provoking’ Buddy, that doesn’t sound good. She flips to the health

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