Page 46 of Take My Breath Away
“Okay boy, okay, I’ve got you.”
He doesn’t struggle or put up any kind of panic induced resistance and for a moment I fear he’s gone, but the beat of my heart is joined by another, and a tiny excuse of a bark.
“You stupid bloody mutt,” I grumble, as I tighten my grip and begin the slow, cold, wade back.
“Oh God,” Perry cries out as I get to the edge, “the beam, it didn’t reach that far out. I lost sight of you and, and I thought…” He swallows hard, the phone wavering in his hand. “I was going to call the police, I was so scared you might have slipped and—”
“I’m fine, we’re both fine,” I say, cutting off Perry’s panicked words.
“But—”
“We’re both soaked through, freezing, and covered in slime, but that’s all. We all just need to get home.”
Perry’s nodding hard and with a shaking hand he pulls Jasper’s leash from his pocket ready to clip it to the collar. There’s no way on earth Jasper, exhausted and trembling in my arms, is in any fit state to walk.
“No.” My fingers are stiff with cold but I manage to undo some of the buttons on my sodden coat, and bundle him beneath it. “Come on, let’s get back to the car as fast as we can, get this one cleaned up and warm. From now on, he’s confined to the garden. No more adventures on Hampstead Heath, okay?”
Perry nods, and gives me a weak, quivery smile. Jasper’s not the only one who needs to be wrapped up warm. Without thinking, I throw my arm around Perry’s shoulders, hugging him close, as with the other I support Jasper as we pick our way down the hill towards the car.
Chapter Twenty
PERRY
The wood burner’s throwing out the heat as the storm rages outside. With the curtains pulled closed and the lamps set low, the living room’s painted in a soft, buttery light.
Pulling my legs up onto the sofa, I sink deeper into the soft leather, and close my eyes.
As soon as we got home, we’d rushed as one through to the utility room with no thought of sorting out ourselves first. Jasper, cold and soaking wet and maybe even traumatised, he was our first thought. I’d been all set to call the vet. I’ve got the number on my phone because I still organise Jasper’s regular health checks for Elliot, but the little dog’s resilient if nothing else. A drink, a treat and a warm, soapy wash in the big, deep Butler sink, he was soon wagging his tail.
A snuffly sound prompts me to open my eyes, and I can’t help smiling as I look down at Jasper, now nice and clean, warm and dry, curled up on his cushion near the burner. His wiry fur even looks fluffy. None of it’s my doing.
It was James, the man who professes to loath dogs and with a special place in Hell for Jasper, who insisted on feeding Jasper a treat. He also insisted on washing him clean with gentle, careful hands, although as he soaped up the little scrap, he couldn’t seem to decide whether Jasper was a good and brave boy or an evil little git who deserved to be muzzled and tied to a post for the rest of his stay.
“I think we deserve this.”
I look up to see James come in, carrying a tray. I can already smell it, the aroma of rich hot chocolate. There’s also the remains of the Victoria sandwich cake I made just yesterday, oozing strawberry jam and buttercream.
“I thought we should finish it off because it’d be a shame for it to go stale.” James gives me a big grin. We both know that’s not going to happen because as soon as I make a cake it’s gone not within days but hours. “He looks like he’s recovered from his ordeal,” James nods over at Jasper, who’s sleeping, snuffling and snorting, lost in his doggy dreams. Jasper twitches and yelps, and it jerks him awake. His head shoots up and he looks around and I can’t help but smile as he gives himself a little shake and settles once more — and farts.
“Jesus,” James rasps, his face scrunching up. “That bloody dog may have recovered, but I’m not sure my sense of smell ever will. I think the inside of my nose has been burnt.”
It’s all noise and fuss, because he doesn’t banish Jasper to the utility room, or even the kitchen, and I smile into my mug of steaming, sweet chocolate.
“No, you have it,” I say, when James goes to place a slice of cake on a plate for me. He doesn’t argue as he bites into the sponge and gives a deep and satisfying groan.
“You really should make these when you set yourself up,” he says between mouthfuls.
“Victoria sponge? It’s not really a celebration cake.”
“I’ll celebrate it. It’s bloody fantastic.” He attacks what’s left.
I know I should be pleased he likes it, but it’s a stark reminder I’m making plans to leave. A gust of wind, heavier and harder than before, rattles the windows, and the hot chocolate that a moment ago tasted so rich and creamy is now thin and bitter.
“I think we deserve to get a takeaway for dinner.” James puts his crumb covered plate down next to his mug on the coffee table.
“You’ve just had cake.”
“I needed something quickly to revive my strength after our ordeal, courtesy of the animal.”
