One Intimate Night. PENNY JORDAN
she might have known that he would be the one.
‘The reason they were out of control,’ she defended herself hotly, ‘was because he had brought Ben.’
‘Ben.’ Philip sighed. ‘Yes, I’m afraid Ben is proving to be rather a problem, and not just at the dog-training classes, according to Piers. I understand that he’s recently been the cause of Mrs Latham hurting her ankle—fortunately not seriously—this time. But so far as Piers is concerned I suspect that Ben is very much on parole.’
Was that Philip’s way of saying that so was she? Georgia wondered a little later as she drove home. Philip was a kind employer, and Georgia had thought she had found if not the idyllic then certainly an ideal job for herself, but Philip’s gentle little homily this afternoon was making her wonder if the partners were as happy with her as she was with them.
Philip’s last words to her had been a hint that maybe she might think it worthwhile doing a further intensive course in dog training. Only by reminding herself that the blame for her carpeting lay not with Philip, nor even with Ben, but with his irascible and unpleasant handler, had she been able to bite back the impulsive retort that had sprung to her lips that the one who needed the intensive course was not so much her but Ben.
He was a friendly and highly intelligent dog, but Mrs Latham spoiled him dreadfully.
With another three months to go before her nine-month probation period was fully up, Georgia now felt uncomfortably aware that her job might not be as secure as she had imagined. There were other veterinary practices, of course, but she liked this one, and besides, how was it going to look on her CV if the practice didn’t give her a full-time contract? Not good—not good at all.
This was all down to Piers Hathersage, she reflected angrily.
The following day Georgia drove to Mrs Latham’s home in the centre of the town.
It was late afternoon, and the early summer sunshine was throwing soft dappled shadows over the warm sandstone in which the local houses were built.
Wrexford was a charming place, a sturdily built and solidly settled market town which took a pride in itself and its history. The River Wrex, from which the town got its name, ran virtually through the town centre; originally the place had been the only spot where local people could ford the breadth of the river, and although modern-day traffic crossed it by bridge the local council had made an attractive park area along the river banks through the town centre for people to enjoy.
Mrs Latham’s Queen Anne town house was one of a pretty terrace built originally by a local landowner and let out to the town’s prosperous burghers.
The street leading to the houses was not open to general traffic; its modern tarmac covering had been stripped back to reveal the original cobblestones and traditional street lighting had been installed, complete with hanging baskets of pastel-coloured trailing plants. In front of the houses themselves the cobbled area opened out into a wider rectangle of ground reaching to the river, with a mature beech tree in its centre.
Residents and their visitors were allowed to park on the cobbles, although all the houses had long gardens and garages to their rear, and it was on these cobbles that Georgia parked her own small estate car, facing the river. Water had always fascinated her, and the River Wrex was a particularly attractive one, especially here in the town, where the very stringent conservation rules of the area meant that the water was blissfully clear and home to a wide variety of wildlife. During Georgia’s first month at the practice someone had brought in an otter with a damaged paw which had been found on the river path. Thankfully a small operation had repaired the damage and the otter had been successfully returned to its home.
Upstream from the town, on the site of what had originally been the area’s corn mill, the original buildings had been turned into a tourist attraction—the millpond cleaned out and its weir restored to its original glory. It was a popular site for picnickers and walkers and Georgia, who loved the countryside, couldn’t help thinking how fortunate she was to live and work in such a beautiful environment.
She felt completely at home here, and had even begun to daydream of the admittedly at the moment remote possibility that she might one day be able to afford to buy into the partnership as a junior partner.
Under Philip’s traditional management the practice had a slightly old-fashioned air to it, so Georgia had been thrilled when the response to her pleas to be allowed to introduce a pet-visiting scheme to a nearby old people’s home had met with overwhelming success.
The pets, carefully chosen and nominated by their vets and accompanied by their enthusiastic owners, visited the home on a regular basis to see their human ‘friends’.
One elderly man, who had always had a dog throughout his adult life before entering the home, had cried emotional tears to see the chocolate-brown Labrador who had visited him.
‘He’s just like my Brownie was,’ he had told the dog’s owner in a choked voice as he’d stroked the obliging dog.
Georgia had several other similar schemes she wanted to introduce as and when the opportunity arose. But with a black mark hovering over her, thanks to Piers, how could she do so?
It was pointless, of course, blaming Ben or Mrs Latham. Even so, she was hoping that the opportunity might arise to suggest tactfully to the older woman that both she and Ben would benefit from Ben undergoing a complete retraining course at the hands of someone with the expertise to teach the dog properly on a one-to-one basis.
Opening her car door, Georgia got out and walked determinedly towards Mrs Latham’s house.
Piers was in the kitchen when Georgia rang the bell—and feeling rather out of temper. He had driven his godmother to the nearest mainline station earlier in the day and then gone on from there to do some essential food shopping. The diet of an old lady who, whilst not totally vegetarian nevertheless seemed to prefer a very light menu, was not one that he, as a six-foot, twelve-and-a-half-stone mature adult man felt happy with. Not that he didn’t believe in healthy eating—he did—but he liked substantially more on his plate than his godmother enjoyed.
He had returned to her house via the estate agent’s, where he had had an in-depth talk with the representative he had seen, outlining his requirements, and had come away with half a dozen promising property details to look over, feeling more than ready for the lunch of locally grown new potatoes accompanied by Scottish salmon, fresh vegetables and a hollandaise sauce he had promised himself.
His first intimation that this was to be a delayed pleasure had occurred when he’d opened the front door and seen the soft drift of feathers floating innocently down the stairs and into the hallway.
Feathers…!
He’d studied them frowningly as the draught of air from the open kitchen door drew them outside.
Feathers?
An unpleasant suspicion had gathered as ominously as the frown corrugating his forehead.
Putting down his shopping, he’d called out sternly, ‘Ben?’
Silence…
Nothing…!
Closing the back door, Piers had hurried upstairs. The door to his godmother’s bedroom was open, and as he’d looked into the room his heart had sunk. There was Ben, lying fast asleep on his godmother’s bed, surrounded by feathers; a torn pillow on the floor had pointed to their origins and Piers had taken a deep breath before saying firmly, ‘Ben!’
In his sleep the dog had breathed deeply, and then wrinkled his nose as a feather landed softly on it.
Grimly Piers had surveyed him. No way could the dog be asleep, and, as though to prove him correct, Ben had suddenly lifted one eyelid just the merest fraction and then closed it again.
Wrathfully Piers had taken action, marching over to the bed and getting hold of Ben’s collar and yanking him firmly