I jumped out of bed bright and early next morning and bounced into the awning to wake Jack.
‘Rise and shine!’ I yelled in his ear. ‘Oh, sorry.’ I whipped off a salute. ‘Rise and shine, sir.’
‘Hm? Z’it time to get up?’
‘Yep. 7.30 a. m. All ready for my first day.’
‘It’s Sunday, Kit. You don’t start till tomorrow. Go back to bed.’
I stuck my lip out. ‘Aww. Go on, I’m excited.’
‘Ugh. Fine. You can start by getting the breakfast on then.’
‘That’s not PA work. You make the breakfast. I want a proper job to do.’
‘The phrase “buying a dog and barking yourself” springs to mind.’ He pushed himself grumpily into a sitting position. ‘Okay, you win. We’ll both make breakfast. Then I’ll get you started.’
He wasn’t kidding. First thing after breakfast, he cleared the slot-in table and dumped a stack of paperwork in front of me.
‘What’s all this?’ I said.
‘Just a few bits you might find useful.’ He riffed the pile with his fingertips. ‘My bio and a press release template for interviews. List of bookshops round the country for setting up signings. Contact details for my publisher, agent, press and a few others you might need. And a load of other bumf. I’ll email it to you too, once we get you sorted with a laptop and phone of your own.’
‘Bloody hell. It’ll take me ages to read through all this.’
‘You don’t need to do it all today.’ He opened one of the overhead storage compartments above the kitchenette. ‘Actually, you’d be better getting going on this. It’s more urgent.’
‘What is it?’ I asked as he dumped a little mailbag down on top of the papers.
‘Fan mail. Needs sorting through. I’ve been neglecting it lately in favour of my new hobby of bride rescuing.’
‘God, there’s loads,’ I said, peeking into the bag. There must’ve been fifty envelopes in there.
‘Yeah. I’m a star.’
I smiled. ‘All right, your celebliness. How do you get it? Royal Mail don’t deliver to campervans, do they?’
‘I’ve got a PO Box address. Whenever I move on, I let Diana know – my agent – and she gets it forwarded to the nearest post office for me to collect.’
‘Ah, right. Clever. So how do I sort it?’
‘I usually go through and put it in three piles. Requires Response, Doesn’t Require Response and Pervert.’
I quirked an eyebrow. ‘Pervert?’
‘Yeah, there’s always a couple.’
‘Can I hold my puppy first?’
‘Suppose a job’s got to have some perks. One minute, that’s all, or Sand’ll get anxious.’
He went out to the dog bed in the awning and scooped up one of the little jellybeans, the firstborn. Sandy eyed him warily, but she didn’t object. Now she’d had a couple of days to get used to motherhood, she seemed less nervous about letting the humans play with her babies.
‘Here you go,’ Jack said, placing the little pup gently on my lap. It yawned and snuggled contentedly into me.
I couldn’t help having a little simper. ‘Aww. The love.’
‘You ever had a dog of your own?’
‘No. Mum wouldn’t let me get a pet when I was a kid. Always wanted one though.’ I ran soft fingers over the silken fur. ‘Lovely, isn’t he?’
‘She, actually. I checked this morning while you were in the shower.’
‘What about the others?’
‘Two girls, four boys. So you’re outnumbered now, ladies, sorry.’
‘We should name them really, shouldn’t we? Seems a bit mean just calling them all “Puppy” till they get rehomed.’
He nodded to the pup. ‘Well, why don’t you name this one? Since she’s yours.’
‘She’s not really mine,’ I said, running a gentle palm over the little dog’s back. ‘Not for long anyway.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I think we could squeeze one more in.’
I glanced up to meet his eyes. ‘Really? You’re letting me have a pet?’
‘If you like. You’ll have to walk her every day, mind.’
‘But I thought your friend wanted them.’
‘He doesn’t need six ratters. He’s just doing it as a favour really: feels guilty about letting his lad get near Sandy. Anyway, I’d feel bad taking them all off the old girl.’
I beamed at him. ‘Thanks, Jack. I’d love to keep her.’
‘Well then? What’s her name?’ he said. ‘Nothing too cutesy or I reserve the right of veto.’
‘Dunno.’ I looked at the little black puppy, who’d settled down for a doze. ‘She kind of looks like a bear, doesn’t she? What about Yogi?’
‘Hmm, not sure. She might grow up to be a picnic basket thief.’
‘Okay, how about… Deefer?’
‘Deefer?’
‘Yeah, you know, Deefer. Deefer Dog.’
He groaned. ‘Get your Christmas crackers early this year?’
‘All right, best of three. If you don’t like this one, I give up.’ I stopped to think, and the puppy picked that moment to let out a juddery little noise, somewhere between a sneeze and a cough. It sounded like she was snickering.
Jack looked at me. ‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘Muttley?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s a boy’s name though,’ I said.
‘It’s a dog’s name.’
I smiled. ‘Does kind of suit her. Okay, Muttley it is.’
Something cold nuzzled my leg, and I looked down to see Sandy eyeing me expectantly.
‘Sorry, Sand,’ I said, rubbing her neck. ‘Here’s your Muttley back.’
I placed the sleeping dog on the floor by her mum, and Sandy picked her gently up by the scruff before trotting off back to her bed.
‘Muttley’s really just her human name though,’ Jack said. ‘In Dog she’s probably got something far cooler, like… you know, Wuffles the Terrible.’
‘Poor Sandy,’ I said as I watched her settle back in her bed again with a full set of babies. ‘It’s going to be hell for her when they go.’
‘Going to be pretty rough on us too,’ Jack said. ‘But it has to be done. And farm life’s the best life for a dog.’
I rummaged in the bag for one of the letters while Jack settled down with his sketchbook on the sofa.
‘Hey, this is all right,’ he said as he selected a pencil. ‘I could get used to watching someone else do the real work for me.’
The first envelope I opened contained a badly spelt letter in crayon, which I hoped meant it wasn’t a contender for the pervert pile.
‘“Dear Mr Jack,”’ I read. ‘“Your books are my very favouritest books and my favouritest is Tilly and Billy Bake a Cake and especially the bit where Tilly gets all flour on her and Billy thinks that she is a ghost and Mummy says if I write a letter you will send me please a signed book and please to also send a signed picture of you please thank you. Olivia Eden Milly Brecon age six and a half.”’
Jack glanced up from his pad to grin at me. ‘Breathe there, lass.’
‘So what pile does that go in?’
‘Put it in Requires Response and I’ll sort her out a book. Not really supposed to send free copies out, my publisher’s always telling me off about it. But I’m a soft old bastard.’
‘Don’t forget the signed photo.’ I glanced up at his annoyingly handsome profile, bent over his pad while he sketched. ‘That’ll be for the mum.’
The next letter was clearly from an adult, typewritten and very formal in tone.
‘“Dear Mr Duffy,”’ I read. ‘“I observed you recently speaking at Scarborough Literature Festival and was most impressed. I enclose a photograph which I think you may find of interest. Please respond asap for further details.”’ I rummaged in the envelope for the Polaroid, and my eyes went wide. ‘Jesus Christ! Pervert pile.’
Jack smirked. ‘Go on, let’s have a look.’
I passed it over.
‘Oh,’ he said, blinking.
‘Yeah.’
‘Nice idea putting his shoe down next to it. Gives that bit of perspective.’
‘I can see why he’s keen to show it off, to be fair.’
‘Unless he’s a size six.’ Jack handed the photo back and I stuffed it hastily in the envelope. ‘Stick it in the Requires Response pile. Given he’s so polite, I’m sure I can manage a “thanks but no thanks”.’
‘And maybe a download link for Grindr.’
The next letter was puzzling. It was typewritten, but it read like it had come from a kid. I couldn’t tell which pile it was supposed to go on.
‘What’s up?’ Jack asked when he noticed my furrowed brow.
‘It’s this letter. Can’t work it out.’
‘Go on, read it to me.’
‘“Hi Mr Duffy! It’s me!”’ I read. ‘“I hope you are well and Sandy is also well! I have been very busy crocheting and I am making her a new coat for the winter which I will send when it is finished! I loved Tilly and Billy Go to Sea and I think it is your best book yet and I have bought it for all my friends at church who agree! I cannot wait to see you at your next book signing so you can sign it for me!”’
‘Sonia, right?’
‘Um, yeah. Who is she?’
He laughed. ‘My biggest fan.’
‘How old is she? Is she a kid?’
‘No, she’s mid-forties I think. She’s… well, she’s a character. But she’s very sweet. You’ll see her at my next book signing, she comes to all of them.’ He nodded to the middle pile of Response Required letters. ‘Put it on there. I’ll post her a photo of the pups, she’ll like that.’
‘Will she crochet jackets for them all?’
‘Heh. Wouldn’t be surprised. Go on, what’s the next one?’
‘“Dear Jack. I met you recently when you visited my son’s school for World Book Day. I just wanted to let you know that my husband takes our little boy to football practice every Wednesday afternoon, so if you were interested you could come round and— ”’ I blinked. ‘Okay, pervert pile again.’
‘Offer any good?’
‘Depends how you feel about leather catsuits.’
He shrugged. ‘Meh. I can take them or leave them.’
‘Probably not worth the petrol then,’ I said, tossing it in the pervert pile. ‘Do all children’s authors get propositioned this much?’
‘Just the sexy ones. I hear Judith Kerr keeps a scrapbook.’