The long summer days had finally arrived and on weekday evenings, Zoe would meet Win at the entrance to Highgate Woods with Beyoncé and a packed supper.
As soon as the little dog caught sight of Win limping across the road at the traffic lights, she’d go rigid in her harness. Her pump-handle tail would wag with a manic metronomic rhythm, she’d start to shake, ears pricked up, and as Win got nearer, she’d strain at the lead, her whole body a quivering arrow pointing in his direction.
When Win was finally close enough that Zoe could kiss him, Beyoncé would force them apart so she could twist and turn in an effort to make sure that every part of her body made contact with Win’s legs. For her final act, she’d roll onto her back and present her belly to be rubbed. Panting, huffing and wheezing as Win stroked her tummy, legs frantically pedalling in the air, until the ecstasy was just too much and she had to push Win away.
It was one hell of a welcome.
‘How come you’re never that pleased to see me?’ Win asked Zoe, because they were trying hard to get back to that place where they could tease each other.
‘It’s not just you,’ Zoe said, as they wound their way through the twisty gates into the woods. ‘When I get back from the shops, she greets me like I’ve just come home from a twelve-month deployment in Afghanistan.’
Once Beyoncé was done worshipping at the altar of Win, Zoe would slip her long lead on and they’d head for the playing field to eat their supper. Supper was usually sandwiches made from whatever was on special offer in Lidl, then they’d walk the shaded paths, the canopy of trees providing them with some relief from the heat of the sun still high in the sky.
Zoe had thought that by getting out of the house, they could talk about the house, without arguing about it as they had done in the past. But now that Win’s wall planner had been decommissioned and Win had agreed to be consulted only on a need-to-know basis, it turned out there wasn’t really that much he needed to know about, and he seemed quite relieved not to be getting daily updates.
They didn’t talk about the baby either though Zoe had hoped that they might be able to test the edges of the wound to see if it had begun to heal – but it was still too sore.
So mostly they talked about Beyoncé because as Win noted, ‘She’s got quite a lot of personality, hasn’t she?’ She was the most human of dogs; bustling up and down paths looking for all the world as if she were carrying out a health and safety inspection. She also delighted in policing the other dogs they met, wading in to stop fights or break up behaviour she deemed too boisterous, which had inspired Zoe to invent a silly crime-fighting caper with Beyoncé as its heroine.
It was a relief to know that she could still make Win laugh as she described a 1930s’ Beyoncé (‘though obviously she wouldn’t be called Beyoncé’) and her owner, an officious little girl called Beatrice and how they’d patrol the woods and sniff out wrongdoings: a brooch stolen by a gang of magpie thugs. Bullies in the playground vanquished. A lost baby squirrel reunited with its siblings. Beyoncé and Beatrice were free to right these wrongs because Beatrice’s French governess was more interested in being wooed by a dashing woodsman – that was Win’s contribution.
‘Though it was the nineteen thirties,’ he’d mused. ‘I think they had a very lax attitude to childrearing. Not like Amanda and Ed. The nephews aren’t allowed out on their scooters without so much protective padding that it’s a wonder they can still scoot.’
The woods didn’t close until nine fifteen on these midsummer evenings and it wasn’t until they heard the bell ring the fifteen-minute warning that they’d gather up their stuff and go back to the house.
Zoe knew it couldn’t last: these few precious weeks, their walks in the woods, putting the past on hold. Caroline, her agent, had been as good as her word and wangled Zoe a week’s worth of children’s workshops in Edinburgh under the auspices of the Scottish Book Trust. ‘I think someone who’s sold way more books than me cancelled at the last minute,’ Zoe had explained to Win wryly. ‘But it’s three hundred quid a day.’
So, even though Beyoncé was due to be spayed on the Monday, Zoe was booked on a train from King’s Cross first thing Saturday morning.
‘I feel horrible deserting Beyoncé when she needs me the most,’ Zoe said, as she stuffed socks down the side of her case on the Friday night. ‘Are you absolutely sure you can work from home Monday and Tuesday?’
‘Absolutely sure,’ Win said, stroking behind the ears of the dog in question who was slumbering on top of his pillow, although he’d been quite adamant that she was never to be allowed on the bed. ‘And she won’t be on her own the rest of the week, Gavin will be here. She’ll be fine.’
Zoe ran a hand through her hair, which was too long but in their latest economy drive, trips to the hairdresser were out. Amanda had offered to cut it when they’d met for lunch. ‘I do the boys’ hair,’ she’d said, but the nephews’ hair always looked as if someone had chewed the ends so Zoe had politely declined. ‘What if she has complications?’
‘There’s no need to whisper, I don’t think she’s listening,’ Win said. He considered the problem for a minute as he wrestled with his knee support, which had stickily cleaved itself to his skin. ‘If she’s not doing well, needs someone to keep an eye on her, then I could take her into work.’
‘See, this is why we can’t have a dog. You can’t be spontaneous with a dog. No suddenly taking off for the weekend.’
‘I don’t do spontaneity,’ Win reminded her with a slightly sheepish smile. ‘I need at least six weeks’ notice before I can agree to a minibreak. But it’s true, we’re not in the right place in our lives to have a dog.’
They really weren’t, but it was still with the heaviest heart that Zoe walked with Win and Beyoncé to Highgate Tube station on Saturday morning, where Cath, Theo and Clive were waiting.
Cath had decided to spend the weekend in Edinburgh with Zoe, then travel on a to a writer’s retreat in Stirling, with no Wi-Fi, no TV and lots of stirring and inspiring views so she could finally finish her novel.
‘But first we lay Edinburgh to waste,’ she announced with relish.
Win looked sceptical. ‘Oh, really?’
‘I’ve already emailed all the mothers in the Midlothian area warning them to lock up their sons,’ Zoe deadpanned. ‘What will you be doing while we’re gone?’
‘Manly pursuits,’ Clive said. He was leaning heavily on his walking frame, a new acquisition, which he’d railed against almost as much as the stairlift, but the fact he’d left the house and the lure of the television spoke volumes for how much better he was doing. ‘There’s a cricket match on the field at Highgate Woods tomorrow, for one thing.’
Zoe had hoped that these manly pursuits might also involve sanding down the stairs but that wasn’t important right now. ‘Please keep Beyoncé out of the path of any stray cricket balls.’ She’d also written a detailed list of the dog’s daily requirements; it rivalled any list that Win had ever written, and ended with the particular way that Beyoncé liked to be tucked up of an evening. Then there was the spaying… ‘She’ll wonder why I wasn’t there to save her from a trip to the vet,’ Zoe said as Win held Beyoncé up and waggled her front paws like she was waving goodbye. ‘She hates going to the vet.’
‘You’ll miss your train,’ Win warned her. ‘Beyoncé will be fine. They’ll give her the good drugs. She won’t know a thing. Now, text me when you arrive and don’t forget to bring home some shortbread. Hope the ankle-biters don’t actually bite.’
Zoe was pretty sure that Win would rather attend a week-long conference on corporation tax or changes to the law surrounding bankruptcy procedures, a week-long conference on anything, than five days doing back-to-back workshops with a bunch of under-sevens.
He adored his nephews who adored him right back even though he called them Extra Large, Large, Medium and Small because he said he couldn’t be expected to remember their names. Then there were Milo and Maisie, Flavia-from-next-door’s twins, who were always coming round to ask if Beyoncé was allowed out to play and who Win regarded as a source of much amusement.
But when confronted with large groups of children at family parties or friends’ barbecues, Win became awkward and ungainly. Even worse, he assumed a cringing voice of forced jollity like a children’s TV presenter on steroids, which didn’t fool anyone, least of all your average child.
‘Aren’t you terrified?’ Win had asked Zoe that morning. ‘You hate public speaking.’
Zoe would rather have root canal treatment without an anaesthetic than have to speak in front of a grown-up audience but thirty six-year-olds didn’t faze her.
‘It’s all good,’ she’d said lightly. ‘What I lack as an authority figure, I make up for by being able to draw dinosaurs.’
The thought came to Zoe as the train chugged into Newcastle station. Cath had disappeared to the buffet car for more crisps and Zoe’s attention was a caught by a man across the aisle reading Room on the Broom aloud to his two small daughters.
She and Win would make great parents.
Whatever qualities Zoe lacked, Win would more than compensate. He’d be firm, consistent, all about establishing boundaries, but silly and indulgent too. And kind, so kind. All the reasons why Zoe loved him were all the reasons Win would make a wonderful father. Suddenly she had an image of him bent over a child, their child, a tiny downy head cradled in his large hand, and she had to catch her breath.
The image kept coming back to her the entire week she was away. The picture made sharper by the time spent with so many small children and her evenings in a hotel room on the phone to Win for Beyoncé updates, house updates and then just chatting about nothing and everything in a way they hadn’t done for ages.
This time, Zoe dared to hope that being apart would bring them together.
Then, on the Thursday night, Win made her cry.
‘Beyoncé was adopted today,’ he said without even a gentle warm-up.
‘Say that again.’
‘A really lovely couple – they’re going to spoil her rotten.’
‘But you don’t know that… It’s too soon. Have the rescue centre even done a home visit with them? Has she gone already?’
‘We talked about this, Zo. You knew it was a possibility,’ Win reminded her. They had and she did and now she could hardly speak, but rang off with a choked grunt instead of a goodbye.
The loss of Beyoncé, when she still wasn’t over losing the baby, was too soon.
It was too soon for a lot of things. Because if they still couldn’t talk about the baby they’d lost then they were nowhere near ready to talk about the baby they might have in the future. ‘Might’ and ‘in the future’ were vague, nebulous terms but over the course of the week Zoe was aware that her grief was changing shape and texture; transforming into a sharpening want for a child of her own. When she got back home, she and Win had some long, hard conversations ahead of them.
It was a relief that on the final night of her stay in Edinburgh, she had a party to attend, rather than chasing her own tortured thoughts around a hotel room. Four months ago she couldn’t face going to a pub quiz with Win but now Zoe was quite happy to attend the book launch of someone she knew through Cath and had only met a couple of times. When Zoe arrived at the crowded bar on Canongate, Helen greeted her with a fervent hug like she was a long-lost friend, and it was never an ordeal to drink wine and guzzle sausage rolls and talk about books, though it was quite a surprise to bump into Caroline at the end of the evening.
‘I was hoping to run into you,’ her agent said, even though they were both four hundred miles away from home. ‘Had a meeting about the Edinburgh Book Festival and couldn’t face rushing to catch the last London train. Shall we travel back together tomorrow?’
Zoe would have preferred not to spend a four-hour journey in the company of a woman who didn’t suffer fools gladly and had been witness to Zoe making a total fool of herself the last time they’d met, but Caroline turned out to be an exemplary fellow traveller. Mostly because she was a fervent fan of a train picnic. After a bacon sandwich and a medicinal gin and tonic for their respective hangovers, they settled into a long gossipy conversation about editors they’d both known and disliked intently.
‘So, how have you been since I last saw you?’ Caroline asked once they’d finished putting the world of publishing to rights.
‘Much better now,’ Zoe said and somehow she was, though she didn’t know how she’d achieved this state of betterdom. ‘I’ve discovered a talent for grouting and we’ve been fostering a dog. Beyoncé. Except now she’s been adopted by some people who will never love her like I love her.’
Zoe showed Caroline several favourite photos of Beyoncé because she had more pictures of Beyoncé on her phone than her grandparents had had taken during their entire lives. She even found herself sharing what she and Win were now calling The Amazing Crime-fighting Adventures of Beyoncé and Beatrice, because two gin and tonics before lunchtime had left Zoe light-headed and loose-lipped.
‘Does Beatrice have parents?’ Caroline enquired. ‘Where are they while she’s upholding the forces of law and order?’
‘Win, my husband, decided that Beatrice had a French governess who was more interested in a burly woodsman called Jim than fulfilling her job remit,’ Zoe explained. Caroline held her gaze and Zoe wondered if this was a hint to go to the buffet car and get another round of gin and tonics in, when Caroline smiled.
‘Well, that’s your next book right there, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘I suppose it could be a middle-grade series,’ Zoe said slowly. ‘I’m not in the mood to do a picture book, but I’d love to do some illustrations and maybe the crime should be a bit more serious. No murder, but pet thefts or a house broken into and a stash of jewellery hidden in the woods.’
Her mind was suddenly racing with possibilities for several different plots. She could also visualise quite clearly the clean lines of the simple pen and ink illustrations and…
This! This is how I used to be! Zoe remembered. It had been gone too long, that part of her that never felt quite right unless she spent time writing or drawing every day, and now she realised how much she missed it. Wanted nothing more than to pick up her pens and pencils and sketch pad and make stories again.
‘And a dog called something other than Beyoncé,’ Caroline was saying firmly. ‘It’s the end of June now, I’d like a workable draft, something ready to be pitched, beginning of September. Then we have a month to send it out to editors before the Frankfurt Book Fair. Agreed? Let’s toast in lukewarm gin and tonic.’
‘Agreed.’ Zoe knocked her plastic glass against Caroline’s. ‘I can’t wait to get started.’