The Little Cornish Kitchen by Jane Linfoot

Author:Jane Linfoot [Linfoot, Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollinsPublishers
Published: 2018-04-26T04:00:00+00:00

21

In Laura’s flat at Seaspray Cottage

Lost dogs and kimonos

Saturday

This is why I rarely let myself dream – because the reality is so often a letdown. When I got back to my end of the balcony last night, Diesel had disappeared. Nothing sinister. There was a scrawled Post-it note from Charlie, saying they’d gone for their evening walk. Charlie, Dakota and Diesel, I take the threesome as a given because however irresistible Dakota is, Diesel still needs to pee. And realistically she didn’t get legs like hers by refusing any bit of exercise that came her way like I do. So, they probably had to have a break in their wardrobe action. Yay to that. The thought of them together made me feel like vomming. Although that could also have been down to necking the best part of two bottles of fizz and finishing off way too much trifle.

I used to like star gazing on my own, but that was before I’d had a dog’s head resting on my shoulder, sighing, groaning back to all my remarks about the moon and the reflections shimmering on the water. Once you’ve been spoiled with that kind of doggy company, doing it on your own isn’t half as magical. So, I left the living room door ajar in case Diesel needed to take refuge again, then I wandered through to the bedroom where I found that Pancake had puked up a fur ball on the rug. Which was exactly what I meant about the good times lasting. Let’s face it, any happy cloud built on a foundation as insubstantial as puddings was bound to be fleeting.

When I open my eyes next morning, I assume from the pale light that it’s early. I take in the raindrops splashing through onto a dark puddle on the bedroom floor in front of the open window and grope for my phone which tells me it’s eight o’clock and pissing down in St Aidan. Then I remember the whole reason for the party – Operation Siren – failed spectacularly due to Charlie leaving the scene.

On the up side, I bought quadruple quantities of croissants and pain au chocolat from the bakery yesterday afternoon as a hangover precaution. And I can have my wake-up blow out on the balcony while the kettle’s boiling. Swinging my legs out of the high bed, I pull a cardi over my sleep shorts and vest, grab a brolly and make my way through the hall. As I reach the living room door, I’m met by a cold black nose and a rough grey head.

‘Diesel, so you did come back. I don’t blame you for wanting to hide out in a groan free zone.’ I push my way through to the kitchen, and give his ears a rub as I fill the kettle. ‘Come on, let’s go outside for a blast, then we’ll have coffee.’

I’m crossing to the balcony doors, when I hear a grunt. As I turn to the patchwork sofa, the pile of throws on it heaves, and as a hand comes out I let out a squeal.

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