Bullet points were better on an email, but Margot didn’t have Will’s email address, just his phone number, which he’d rather grudgingly given. But he was looking after Blossom, her dog. And although it was only for six days, they were six crucial days for a dog that had no doubt been mistreated, abandoned, put in a council pound and then ended up in a small caged enclosure.
Blossom’s new life with Margot was going to be fantastic – she’d already booked Blossom in for a shampoo and a blueberry facial at a doggy spa – but she also wanted the preceding week to be fantastic and unlikely to cause Blossom even more trauma. Will hadn’t seemed entirely on board with the whole foster thing and Margot needed to know that he was now properly leaning in as Blossom’s primary, if temporary, caregiver.
Their acquaintance had been brief and the circumstances unprecedented. Margot didn’t often conduct her conversations while sobbing and snotting everywhere, especially when there was a very handsome man in the vicinity.
Though was he too handsome? Margot’s mother had warned her off good-looking men. ‘I’ve always found they have a weakness of character,’ she’d once said, so she probably wouldn’t have thought much of Will with his thick, straight, dark-blond hair, the colour of old pound coins, swept off his face so it wouldn’t detract from his impressive bone structure. Lips that wouldn’t have lost any of their charm if they had been curved into a smile instead of pressed into a tight line. Though he had smiled at Margot briefly and their eyes had met, and she’d felt a little frisson pass between them, a gossamer flutter that was over before Margot had had time to catch her breath. And now Margot couldn’t remember what colour his eyes were because she hadn’t wanted to keep gawping at him. He was probably used to women desperate to get their hands on his tall, rangy body.
He’d also had an aloof air about him, as if he were slightly better than everyone he encountered. Maybe it was just the way his face was. Could men have resting bitch face? Margot decided they probably could as she recalled Will looking down at her from a great height (though she had been on her knees, and he couldn’t help being tall). Still, he could have helped the side-eye and the pursing of his lips and the hollowing of his cheeks as if he was auditioning for the role of Mr Darcy in an am-dram production of Pride and Prejudice.
Or perhaps Margot was projecting her own issues on the memory. But whatever his perceived faults were, Margot wasn’t imagining the way he’d ignored her previous message.
It had been twenty-four hours since she’d sent Will a text and yet still no reply to her many bullet-pointed enquiries. Margot’s reasoning being that one big text message was much better than many, many, many separate text messages. Something that George, and even some of her dearest friends, had always been keen to point out.
How is Blossom?
Has she settled?
Is she still nervous around you?
How did she sleep?
Has she eaten?
Is she house-trained?
Would love it if you could send pictures.
Have you taken her for a walk yet? How does she walk on the lead?
Also, can you buy some pure coconut oil (will reimburse you) and start rubbing it on her bald patches?
Is she still completely adorable?
I’m in Portugal, so aware that there is a time difference, but can’t wait for your reply. And don’t forget pictures!
That had been one whole day ago and still no answer. It was so rude.
Margot, though it took every ounce of restraint she possessed, decided to leave another twenty-four hours between text messages. Again, something that she had learned by trial and error and Tracy repeatedly telling her, ‘Just because you reply to all messages within five seconds, doesn’t mean that everyone else should. We’re humans, Margs. We’re fallible.’
So, Margot left it another day; she had to sleep after all. She also took time to follow every Staffy with an Instagram account and pondered what Blossom’s account should be called (Blossom_the_Staffy seemed a little dull) and what the look and feel of it should be. However, she could only put off the inevitable for so long, and the next morning Margot was compelled to send another message.
It’s been forty-eight hours and I’m officially worried!
How is Blossom?
Nothing’s wrong, is it? She is with you, isn’t she?
Pics to prove it, please!
6
Will
Will shuddered as his phone pinged with another, no doubt bullet-pointed message from Margot. He’d have turned it on to silent if he could, but he was waiting for his sister Rowan to get back to him with rough estimates for the flowers for two weddings and a corporate drinks reception.
He glared at his phone then schooled his features into something calm and neutral as he checked on Blossom.
He hadn’t replied to Margot’s . . . screed, because Blossom was not fine. She’d been with him for thirty-six hours and hadn’t come out from under his dining table in all that time. Will had used his softest voice, had got down on his hands and knees, he’d even cooked chicken and held it in his outstretched palm, but nothing would coax Blossom out.
After a morning of deep-dive dog research, Will had put together a schedule for Blossom of walks, feeding times, nap time and play time to settle her into a routine. Routines were great for establishing safe, secure boundaries but Blossom hadn’t got that memo. She hadn’t been for a walk either, so she hadn’t had a wee or done the other thing (though the sanctity of his newly sanded and varnished floorboards was the very least of Will’s worries) and she certainly hadn’t slept.
All that Blossom had done was sit, her back up against the wall, her head hanging down, her body still shaking. Much as she was doing when Belinda, aka Spectacles, called to see how he was getting on. ‘I’m not,’ Will said, not even caring that he was admitting defeat and giving up at the first hurdle. His manly pride would survive but he wasn’t sure that Blossom would. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if she wasn’t better off in kennels. I think she was marginally less terrified there.’
‘Well, it’s only been a few hours,’ Belinda decided after a moment’s tense silence, when actually it had been twenty-two at that point. Will hadn’t even gone to bed but had spent the night before sitting on the floor where Blossom could see him, just in case she’d be even more scared if she were left on her own. ‘Give her time to settle, don’t push her.’
‘But she doesn’t even want to go out,’ Will protested.
‘Oh, dogs can hold their pee for over forty-eight hours in some extreme cases,’ Belinda told him. ‘It’s not ideal, but she’s probably picking up on your own stress. Try to ignore her.’
It was very hard to ignore another living being that was experiencing this level of abject despair, but Will decided to give up his vigil at the dining table in favour of stretching out on the sofa.
Thankfully he hadn’t been called upon to troubleshoot any dire problems that had arisen in Bloom & Family, purveyors of beautiful blooms since 1936, as the signage in the shop downstairs proudly proclaimed. He’d told his mother that he was spending a couple of days putting the paperwork in order, which wasn’t a lie. No one would miss him, unless there was a sudden mad rush for mixed bouquets.