‘It’s their wedding anniversary today. They’d have been married sixty-two years . . .’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Dad would always order in golden roses for the number of years they’d been together.’ Mary’s voice wobbled so that even Blossom was roused to stick a concerned head out from the under the table. ‘Mum had golden roses in her wedding bouquet.’
‘We could do something nice tonight, go out for dinner maybe?’ Will suggested even though he knew that wasn’t the answer. That a meal at the family’s favourite Italian on Southampton Row wouldn’t heal the hurt, especially as that was where they’d always gone to celebrate birthdays, anniversaries and good news. They’d been going there for so long that the entire staff, most of them ancient, would line up to shake their hands in greeting. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No need to keep saying sorry, Will. It’s not your fault.’ Mary took out a tissue that she had tucked up her sleeve and blew her nose loudly. ‘I’m being silly.’
‘You’re not,’ Will said, glancing down to see that Blossom, not surprisingly, now had her head resting against Mary’s knee. ‘Don’t say that.’
They stood there in silence for a moment, then Mary sniffed and straightened her shoulders. ‘Well, I should get on. None of these flowers are going to arrange themselves.’
Later that day, when there was a brief break in the weather, Will took Blossom to Alexandra Park. He was still castigating himself for not being more of a rock for Mary. For never, ever knowing the right words to say to someone. No wonder he’d barely managed sixty-two days with the same woman, never mind sixty-two years.
‘Blossom, please stop pulling,’ he said out loud, as the rain had scared everyone away apart from the one other dog-walker Will could see in the distance, their head down.
It wasn’t that he was cold and unfeeling, Will reasoned as he returned to his previous train of thought. As he’d discovered in therapy, he hadn’t allowed himself to feel and God knows he had his reasons for that.
Maybe that was why he’d connected with Blossom so quickly. She expected nothing from him (except a never-ending supply of treats) and passed no judgement on him. Even better, she never wanted to ask him about his feelings or tell him that he wasn’t good enough. And now that she’d settled down, Will could show her affection without fear of rejection.
Blossom lived in the moment, and at this very moment, she was pulling so hard at her harness that Will was amazed that it didn’t break under the pressure. Her entire being was focused solely on the squirrel that was darting from one flower bed to the next.
Will looked around again. The place really was deserted. The other dogwalker and dog had disappeared from view.
What harm would it do to let her off the lead? Roland had said that he was risk-averse, like that was a bad thing, but Will could take a calculated risk, now and again. There were no distractions and surely he’d established enough clear-cut boundaries that Blossom would come back as soon as he called her.
‘OK, OK,’ Will muttered, his mind made up. He bent down to release the hound. ‘This will be our secret. Margot must never know. I’m trusting you to do the right thing, Blossom.’
But Blossom was already gone, chasing a squirrel from one flower bed to the next, then up the slope, behind which was bisected by steep, curved paths.
‘That’s enough now, Blossom!’ Will called, because beyond those paths was a steeper grass verge, then the road that ran through the palace grounds. ‘Come back! There’s a good girl!’
The wind had picked up so Will wasn’t sure that she’d heard him. Then she turned and stared right at him, head tilted, ears cocked.
‘Come on! I have treats!’ Will pulled the bag out of his jacket pocket and rustled them enticingly. He wasn’t going to get stressed. She was going to come back . . .
The squirrel darted again, and Blossom turned away so she could dart after it; beetling up the verge, so for one agonising, heart-stopping second, Will couldn’t see her. He scrambled after her, his heart racing, waiting for the squeal of brakes, the sound of a car horn, or, oh God, a bloody bus.
The grass was wet and Will fell to his knees, barely noticing that his hands were muddy as he pushed himself back up and staggered the remaining distance until he was standing on the pavement. Just across the road was Alexandra Palace, rising up over North London in all her Victorian splendour but Blossom was nowhere to be seen.
She hadn’t been run over. That was something. Had she turned right, back in the direction they’d come? Or had she turned left, in the direction of Wood Green?
What was he meant to do? Head for home and hope that Blossom would be there? Even though to get home she had to cross several main roads. Or was she still chasing the squirrel through the park, maybe down to the boating lake? Will didn’t even know if she could swim.
He was paralysed with fear, gripped in the clutch of inertia, her lead hanging limply in his hand. He was useless, spineless . . .
Then there was the toot of a horn and his entire chest clenched. But the road was clear, and a car was slowing down so that a woman on the passenger side could open her window. ‘Have you lost a dog?’
‘Y-y-yeah . . .’
‘There’s a dog just back there, running along the bank,’ she said, then the car behind sounded its horn, so with an apologetic smile, they drove off.
Will ran along the pavement. There was another steep grass verge between the road and the palace, which was why most people took the designated steps. But not Blossom. She was running up and down the bank, still in hot pursuit of the squirrel.
He just stopped himself from shouting her name; actually choking on the first syllable when he realised she might bound across the road again to reach him. Thankfully, the road was still clear. He hurried across so he could shout.
‘Blossom! Get back here, RIGHT THE HELL NOW!’
Blossom didn’t pay Will any attention, but continued to run around in circles, though the squirrel was long gone.
‘BAD DOG! BAD GIRL! YOU COME HERE NOW!’
But why on earth would she come to the man who was shouting at her? Will made a grab for her, falling to his knees again, but Blossom evaded him and took off, this time in the direction of the car park, because obviously she had a death wish and being mown down was preferable to being with Will.
After a good thirty minutes, two car park attendants managed to corner Blossom between two parked cars and Will was able to snap on her lead.
At the touch of Will’s hand, Blossom cowered as if she was expecting an almighty walloping. Will had been furious because she wouldn’t come when she was called and she could have been killed, but instantly his anger melted away. He wasn’t that guy. He didn’t want Blossom to ever think that he was that guy.
Will felt his chest clench again, as if all the breath had been knocked out of him. His heart and head were pounding and the sense of impending doom, as if the end of the world was well and truly nigh, was crashing down on him.
‘Breathe,’ he whispered out loud. ‘Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.’
As Roland had advised him, he said the word again and again, like a mantra, a way to force the air back into his lungs.
It was just a panic attack. Just! Even though Will now knew that they were panic attacks didn’t rob them of their power to immobilise and terrify him.