Now that she was grown up, the Heath was reserved strictly for the summer months. For short walks, picnics and for the annual trip to swim in the Ladies Pond with Tracy, after which Margot would declare on her social media that she’d been ‘wild swimming’, when really she’d been doing no such thing.
During that first week together, she and Blossom would begin at the Highgate end, walking as far as Kenwood House, then plunging into the innermost parts of the Heath along lesser trodden paths, dense with trees, where all Margot could hear was birdsong so it was hard to believe she was still in a bustling city. There had been a time when Margot knew every inch of the Heath, but she was out of practice. She could only hope that eventually they’d crest the top of Parliament Hill then shortly come out at the bottom of Highgate West Hill. Though three times Margot had got lost and they’d only walked up the hill back to Highgate Village once, and once was enough to convince Margot that she was having a heart attack. It was so steep and she was so unfit.
Blossom was happy plodding along at Margot’s side and was so submissive that as soon as another dog approached, she’d immediately roll onto her back. ‘Honestly, Blossom, you’re a strong, independent woman, have some dignity,’ Margot would say.
These dogs had owners who tended to travel in a pack. Mostly women of a certain age who all wore fleeces and sensible walking shoes and carried their dog treats in ancient Ziploc bags. Word quickly got out that there was a new kid on the block.
Blossom would hide behind Margot’s legs as Margot went through her sad origin story (‘She’s about three. I’ve only just adopted her. No. Not an owner surrender. She was picked up as a stray in Neasden. I’m not sure if she’d been abused but she’s certainly been neglected. No, they’re not burn marks. The rescue centre said it was alopecia and I’m rubbing coconut oil on them. No, I haven’t tried CBD oil, but I will, thank you. Yes, she is very placid for a Staffy.’)
Then Margot was introduced to their dogs: an inordinate number of Cockapoos, quite a lot of miniature schnauzers, pugs and French bulldogs. Every breed was represented on Hampstead Heath. From sleek russet Vizslas and grey Weimaraners, to scruffy Lurchers, cherished Chihuahuas who all wore little jumpers, and even a couple of Staffies, whose owners would nod at Margot as if she’d been inducted into some secret club.
People who didn’t live in London were always insistent that London was a brutal, fast-paced, unfriendly place full of harsh-faced strangers, but when you lived there, it wasn’t like that at all. Margot knew most of her neighbours to say hello to (even Kate Moss!) and Daphne and Geoff who lived in the house above her were practically surrogate grandparents to her. They had spare keys to her flat and never minded when Margot went on an eBay spree and they had to take in her parcels while she was at work. She knew the baristas at her favourite independent coffee place and the staff at the newsagent and the two bookshops and the little Italian where they did a penne arrabbiata that was just the right side of spicy.
But in one week of walking Blossom, the people that Margot was on ‘hello’ terms with doubled, maybe even tripled, which made up for the fact that her legs ached worse than the time she’d been persuaded to do a lunchtime spin class.
Still, she could rest her aching legs on the sofa after walking, and Blossom would jump up too so Margot could spend hours marvelling at her dog; her soft, floppy ears and the groove down the middle of her skull (a Staffy trait apparently); her absolutely huge block head, roughly the size and weight of a regulation football, that was balanced out by her delicate face; those kohl-rimmed brown eyes and the little snout that Margot loved to pepper with kisses.
Then there was her completely hairless belly, which felt a lot like velveteen as Margot stroked it for hours, much to Blossom’s delight. She didn’t even mind when Margot smeared coconut oil on her bald patches, though she did try to lick it off.
Unlike the men that Margot had tried to love even when it became abundantly clear that they didn’t love her back, she could pour devotion over Blossom and Blossom returned it tenfold. Blossom didn’t even resent Margot for refusing to give her human food or forbidding her from climbing on the bed on their first night together.
‘We don’t know each other very well but I already love you,’ Margot confessed after she’d coaxed Blossom into her own, very expensive, orthopaedic memory-foam bed and tucked her up with a fleecy blanket. ‘But Will was right. You snore like thunder and your farts are the worst things my nose has ever experienced. No way are you sharing a bed with me.’
Blossom hadn’t taken it personally. When Margot had woken her up the next morning, her tail had wagged simply at the sight of Margot’s puffy, sleep encrusted face.
‘It’s just absolute unconditional love,’ she told her friends on Saturday afternoon, when they surprised her with an impromptu ‘doggy shower’. Margot was napping on the sofa with Blossom, big spoon to Blossom’s little spoon, when there was a beep of a WhatsApp message: Surprise! Open your door!
Tracy, Jess and Sarah were congregated on Margot’s doorstep with presents, a cake box and a pink ‘It’s a girl!’ helium balloon.
Sarah, Margot’s oldest friend, was leading the charge. She was one of the few people that remembered Margot as a child, her parents, the idyllic days of her early years. Margot and Sarah had gone to nursery and primary school together, in and out of each other’s houses, until Sarah’s family had moved to Hong Kong before the start of secondary school. Sarah had come back to London in her early twenties. Facebook had reunited them, and they’d never been parted since.
Tracy had shared a flat with Jess all the way through fashion college, which had led to Margot, in turn, sharing many bottles of white wine with Jess.
Over the years, the four of them had commiserated over bad jobs, bad boyfriends and bad landlords, had had several holidays together, many, many nights out and many, many hangover-soaked brunches the morning after.
Even marriage (Tracy) and marriage and kids (Jess and Sarah) hadn’t withered their friendship, unlike the other friends that Margot had known over the years who had found partners and had inevitably left London. Sometimes before having children, sometimes just after, because with its pollution and its sub-standard housing and sky-high rents, London could literally kill you and any children that you might have.
Margot knew that there’d probably be a time when Tracy and Sarah left for sunnier climes, probably Margate or Hastings. Tracy was already sending the others links to properties in Margate often captioned, You couldn’t get a one-bedroom flat in Leyton for the price of this house, and Sarah was adamant that she didn’t want three-year-old Maisie and baby Bertie growing up with black snot up their nostrils and knife crime on their doorstep. It was likely only Jess would stay, because she was a born and bred Londoner and had never felt the pull of anywhere else.
But for now, the three of them were still in London and waiting for Margot to step aside and grant them admittance.
‘Hello! Such a surprise! Oooh, cake!’
They crammed into Margot’s hall to divest themselves of coats and shoes, and already her little flat felt full of chatter, the competing scents of three different perfumes and love.
‘Where is she?’ Jess asked, handing Margot the cake box.