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.