Lost Dogs and Lonely Hearts Read Online Free PDF Page A

did the National Lottery,’ said George, catching Rachel’s eye. ‘Freda and Ted have Pippin to thank for their conservatory. He had his own sofa in there, didn’t he? For watching the tennis.’
    ‘Don’t remind me,’ said Freda, dabbing her nose. ‘It’s so empty without him.’
    Ted reached for another slice of cake.
    ‘I know you’re not exactly dressed for it, but shall I show you round the kennels?’ asked Megan. ‘Then you can settle in a bit? Or whatever you want to do.’
    Rachel felt bad for being so disorganised. They expected her to have plans. She looked as if she should have plans, coming here as the executor in charge of parcelling up Dot’s life, dressed as if she was off to a power breakfast. But she had no plans at all. Her brain was so addled with shock and money worries and the things she should have said if she hadn’t been so stunned, she wasn’t even sure she could cope with a trip to the supermarket for food right now.
    ‘Megan, just tell the dogs not to shed for ten minutes,’ said George, with a fake bossy tone. ‘And take an air freshener with you – these country smells can be a shock to sophisticated metropolitan types.’
    Rachel was about to ask Megan for a cup of tea first, but she swung round at his words. There was a sardonic half-smile playing on the corner of George’s wide mouth and, without warning, she felt riled, the first non-Oliver-related emotion she’d had since she walked out.
    ‘You can always put scented candles in there,’ he added, seeing her irritation. ‘And have it feng shuied?’
    That smug bastard’s laughing at me, thought Rachel. He thinks I’m some London princess who’s not fit to set foot in Dot’s precious kennels. Just because I don’t have some hairy animal in tow, he thinks he can take the piss. Well, he can’t.
    She put her laptop bag down by the table and pushed back the sleeves of her long cashmere cardigan.
    ‘Working in London you get used to some unpleasant smells,’ she said. ‘Let’s go, shall we, Megan?’
    Megan looked between Rachel and George, her eyebrows raised a fraction, and then she put down the cup of tea Freda had poured and showed Rachel out of the kitchen to the dogs’ domain.      
     
    The kennels were joined onto the back of the house by a covered passageway neatly tiled with black and white squares, and the walls decorated with happy photos of old dogs being united with their brand-new owners.
    Long windows looked out onto the apple orchard, and the modest hills beyond that, and Rachel dimly remembered the will saying something about fourteen acres of land behind the house as they walked down the short corridor. There was certainly plenty of space for the dogs to run around in the wild gardens.
    Megan pushed open the heavy fire doors to the kennels, and now Rachel really could smell dogs – a biscuity, oily smell of coats and hair, with a tangy top note of meat and bleach. It was strange, but not unpleasant. Over that, she felt as if she could actually sense the anxiety of the dogs’ bodies, the tension and pent-up energy and confusion in the air.
    Inside, everything was steel and concrete and glass, all spotlessly clean. As Rachel looked further in, she made out two rows of cage-fronted pens running either side of a stone-flagged corridor, with a little office to one side and a kitchen opposite. At the far end was a big old stable door; it let in sunlight and sharp fresh air when the top half was opened for ventilation, as it was now. Incongruously, the dogs seemed to be grumbling along to a panel discussion on the radio.
    ‘So, here we are!’ said Megan, cheerily. She threw her hands wide. ‘Home sweet home for our waifs and strays!’
    At the sound of her voice, the ragged chorus of yaps turned into a wall of barking – deep, booming baying with tiny yips cutting across the bass notes. It clanged on Rachel’s unaccustomed ears.
    ‘Shush!’ yelled Megan ineffectively.
    ‘How many are