Wellies and Westies by Cressida McLaughlin

messed-up life, how are you supposed to have one when you spend all your time here or studying?’

    ‘It’s fun! And if we can reassure a few scared owners, and fix the genuinely unwell pets too, then we all go home happy. What would you do if Valentino got sick, or Disco – if Disco hurt herself on a Friday night – and the vet’s was shut?’
    ‘I’m not against what you’re doing – how could I be? But I wish that…’ Cat sighed, buried her face in Valentino’s neck. ‘I wish we could have our own dog. How can Joe be fine about cats, but not dogs?’
    Polly stared at her trousers, following the crease line with her finger. ‘He’s just not. I know it’s tough but…give it a few more months, maybe his mood will pick up and he’ll agree to it. Shed’s not that bad.’
    ‘Shed’s a grump.’
    ‘You’re a grump. I thought you’d be sick of dogs by now.’
    ‘Never going to happen.’ Cat lifted Dior onto her knee alongside Valentino, and she stepped neatly onto Polly’s lap to give himself more room.
    ‘Hey,’ Polly laughed, ‘what are you—’
    ‘Excuse me – excuse me?’
    A young man hurried towards them, holding a dog in his arms. It was white and grey – it looked like some kind of terrier, but Cat couldn’t see it clearly enough to be sure.
    ‘Sorry, but are you vets?’ he rushed. ‘My dog, Rummy, he’s sick and I don’t know why.’
    ‘Oh, God, hang on.’ Polly nudged Dior onto the ground and hurried over to him. The man was taller than Polly, his black hair in tight, thick curls, and his face was fixed in concentration, as if he was willing himself to hold back his emotions. ‘Let’s get him inside,’ Polly said. ‘Rummy, is it?’
    ‘Yes, yes. I found him like this in his basket. He’s usually so full of energy and I just…I’m so worried.’
    ‘We’ll take care of him, Mr…’

    ‘Capello. Owen Capello.’
    ‘OK, Mr Capello, we’ll see if the vet can see him right away.’ She led the way inside, flashing Cat an apologetic glance, Owen and his stricken dog following closely behind.
    ‘Oh, sad,’ Cat murmured. ‘That poor dog didn’t look very well, did he?’
    Coco looked up at her, Polly’s discarded sandwich sticking out of his mouth.
    ‘I knew you’d care. Come on, let’s get back to Jessica, see how many hundreds of books she’s signed while we’ve been gallivanting in the park.’ She untangled the brightly coloured leads and made her way back towards Primrose Terrace, the three Westies trotting alongside her.
    Cat was, for once, dogless. Dogless and bootless, her muddy wellies by the back door at home. She was scouring Fairhaven’s clothes shops for something to wear to Jessica’s party. It wasn’t that she didn’t have anything to wear, but she’d never been invited to a celebrity party before, and with the possibility of new business for Pooch Promenade, she needed something special.
    The centre of Fairhaven had most of the main chain stores and a few boutiques, but it wasn’t anywhere near as large as Brighton. She felt as if she’d been up and down the quaint, pedestrianized shopping streets several times, and had so far found a pale blue dress that was far too tight, and a black dress that was nice, but didn’t fit her ‘special’ criteria. But she was determined to embrace her new town, and the centre of Fairhaven was as far as she was prepared to travel today.
    She rifled through the racks inside a small, vintage clothes boutique, moving past pinks and yellows that, despite being springlike, were not entirely her.
    ‘Can I help at all?’ the woman behind the counter asked. She was older than Cat, wearing a cream jumper and jeans, friendly and not in the least intimidating.

    ‘Uhm, I’m looking for something for a party. Something stylish, classic.’
    As if the woman would be prepared to admit that any of her stock was unstylish. Cat resisted the urge to bolt out of the door.
    She gave Cat an amused look. ‘Any particular