Must Be Love

  CATHY

  WOODMAN

  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Also by Cathy Woodman

  Chapter One: It’s a Vet’s Life

  Chapter Two: Once Bitten

  Chapter Three: A Cold, Wet Nose

  Chapter Four: First Cut

  Chapter Five: Let Sleeping Vets Lie

  Chapter Six: A Private Consultation

  Chapter Seven: A Bird in the Hand

  Chapter Eight: A Positive Diagnosis

  Chapter Nine: Hold Your Horses

  Chapter Ten: Dogs Aloud

  Chapter Eleven: The Cat’s Whiskers

  Chapter Twelve: Cats and Dogs

  Chapter Thirteen: The Duck Race

  Chapter Fourteen: 101 Labradoodles

  Chapter Fifteen: Puppy Love

  Chapter Sixteen: Love Is Blind

  Chapter Seventeen: Confessions

  Chapter Eighteen: Chicken Wrap

  Chapter Nineteen: Abracadabra

  Chapter Twenty: Just Married

  Chapter Twenty-one: Back to Black

  Chapter Twenty-two: A Shot in the Dark

  Chapter Twenty-three: A Double Dose

  Chapter Twenty-four: Rising Damp

  Chapter Twenty-five: Come Hell or High Water

  Chapter Twenty-six: Vet Rescue

  Acknowledgements

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN: 9781407059921

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Arrow Books 2010

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  Copyright © Cathy Woodman, 2010

  Cathy Woodman has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Arrow Books Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.html

  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9780099543572

  The Random House Group Limited makes every effort to ensure that the papers used in its books are made from trees that have been legally sourced from well-managed and credibly certified forests. Our paper procurement policy can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/paper.htm

  Typeset by SX Composing DTP, Rayleigh, Essex Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Cox & Wyman, Reading RG1 8EX

  Dedication to come

  Must be Love

  Cathy Woodman began her working life as a small-animal vet before turning to writing fiction. She won the Harry Bowling First Novel Award in 2002 and is a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association. She is also a sessional lecturer in animal management at a local college for land-based industries. Must Be Love is the second book in the series, following Trust Me, I’m a Vet, based in the fictional market town of Talyton St George, in beautiful East Devon, where Cathy lived as a child. Cathy now lives with her husband, two children, two ponies, three exuberant Border terriers and two cats in a village near Winchester, Hampshire.

  Also by Cathy Woodman

  Trust Me, I’m a Vet

  Chapter One

  It’s a Vet’s Life

  When I took the plunge and bought into the partnership in Otter House last year, I thought I had a pretty good idea of what I was taking on: a quiet country practice in the peaceful market town of Talyton St George. Moving to Devon from London, where I worked as a busy city vet, I was expecting something of a culture shock, but I was also looking forward to having time on my hands to get to know my lovely new clients and their pets, and generally living life at a more leisurely pace.

  Gazing across Reception towards Frances, who’s behind the desk, which is covered with cards and gifts, I find myself smiling at how naive I was. Frances is looking fraught. Her wig – the almond-coloured one that reminds me of candyfloss twirled on a stick – has gone askew, revealing wisps of her scant grey hair.

  She takes payment from Mrs Dyer, wife of the local butcher and one of our regulars, for a bag of prescription diet food and a Christmas-cracker toy, which squeaks when she passes it through the scanner. As it squeaks for a second time, Mrs Dyer’s enormous Great Dane (the Harlequin version, which looks as if someone’s taken a white dog and flicked black paint at it), who was trembling on the scales in the far corner of Reception, takes a flying leap towards the desk with Izzy on the end of his lead.

  ‘Brutus! No!’ Izzy’s eyes flash. The snowflakes on her hairband flash too, and something in the tone of her voice makes the dog stop in his tracks. Brutus might be a big dog – he’s so broad you could use him as a coffee table – but he’s no match for our nurse. He knows exactly who’s boss.

  ‘He thinks it’s a baby,’ Mrs Dyer announces to everyone else in the waiting area, whose pets have taken refuge on laps and under chairs. ‘He adores babies. He just wants to lick them to death.’

  I notice how Lynsey Pitt – who’s brought Raffles, a small tan rescue dog short on legs and long on character, for a rather belated second vaccination – holds her baby daughter a little tighter as Brutus shakes his head, sending a glistening spatter of drool over Izzy’s navy scrubs, then pads meekly back to the scales.

  Izzy persuades him back on with the aid of a healthy, low-cal treat while Diana, a white boxer with a big grin on her face, tries to join in. It’s no use Izzy scolding her, because she’s deaf and answers to hand signals – and that’s only when she feels like it.

  An elderly woman I remember from the talk I gave to the WI back in November called ‘It’s a Vet’s Life’ struggles in through the double glass doors with a cat basket balanced on top of a shopping trolley, followed by a girl who can’t be older than twelve with a small box pierced with holes. Frances greets the woman with the cat and starts inputting her details onto the computer, the postman turns up with parcels to be signed for and the phone starts ringing. I answer it.

  ‘Otter House Vets’ – how I love saying that – ‘how can I help?’ Once I’ve ascertained from the panicking client that I have an emergency on my hands and she’s housebound, I arrange to visit. ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’

  Frances frowns as I put the phone down. I know what she’s getting at.

  ‘If you book anything else in, Maz,’ she says, surveying the packed waiting area, ‘we’ll all be here till Christmas.’

  ‘It is Christmas, Frances, pretty much.’ The day before Christmas Eve, anyway, I think, tearing my eyes from the hypnotic lime and yellow swirls on Frances’s top. Emma would prefer
her to wear uniform, saying that the neo-hippy look doesn’t suit anyone, let alone someone in their late fifties like Frances, but I think she brightens the place up and provides a little light relief from the all-blue theme that runs through the practice: blue chairs, pale blue walls and blue-grey non-slip, easy-clean floors. It’s Emma’s choice – blue’s her favourite colour. ‘I’ve got to go. Will you let Emma know I’m on my way to Talyford?’ I won’t disturb her while she’s consulting.

  ‘Will do,’ Frances says.

  I pick up the piece of paper on which I’ve scribbled down the address, grab my jacket and keys from the cloakroom and dash off with Frances’s voice ringing in my ears.

  ‘Maz, come back. Haven’t you forgotten something?’ I turn to find Frances holding out the visit case. ‘You’ll forget your head one of these days,’ she adds, with mock severity.

  I fetch my car. It’s a sporty coupé which I’ve hardly used recently and the drive up to Talyford will do it good. That’s my excuse anyway – it’ll do me good too. I ought to change it for something more practical, but – not that I’m sentimental or anything – it feels like the last connection to my old life as a city vet, working in London.

  While driving out of the car park at the side of Otter House, I glance back at the practice, a solid three-storey Georgian building rendered the colour of clotted cream. It has my name on it, along with Emma’s – my best friend for over fifteen years, and now my business partner – on a brass plaque outside. It’s like a dream, and if I wasn’t driving, I’d have to pinch myself. I still can’t believe my luck.

  When Emma and I met over a dead greyhound at vet school, I hoped we might end up working together. I smile as I recall how one of our professors who thought himself a bit of a film buff referred to me as Gwyneth Paltrow on account of my blonde hair and Emma as Catherine Zeta-Jones.

  I head out of Talyton St George, following the confusing one-way system, which has evolved because the streets aren’t wide enough to take two lanes of traffic. With the heater on full blast, I pass the butcher’s, where a queue of shoppers with coats and brollies stand under a striped awning to collect their pre-ordered turkeys and hams, before I emerge from Market Square, between Lacey’s Fine Wines and Lupins, the gift shop, and turn north on the road signposted to Talyford.

  The local station Megadrive Radio plays an oldie from Wet Wet Wet. The rain pelts down, turning to sleet.

  Talyford. There was a clue in the name, I think wryly as I stop at the edge of the murky stream that foams and swirls across the road before it continues its way down the valley to join the river. I guess it’s safe to cross. There’s no way of telling since the depth indicator post has been broken off and chucked in the hedge, but as I’m not sure I’ll find my way into the other end of the village if I make a diversion, I drive on, being careful not to make waves, and reach the other side.

  Further down the hill, the stream passes in front of a handful of cottages, all painted pale pink, a shop with a post office, a small church and a courtyard of cob-and-thatch barn conversions with ‘For Sale’ signs outside, which make up the vast metropolis – I’m being ironic – of Talyford. I park in front of one of the cottages, the Old Forge, and make my way across a wrought-iron footbridge over the stream to the front door.

  I knock, but there’s no answer and, remembering that this is Devon and therefore nothing happens in a hurry, I wait for a couple of minutes before knocking again. A dog whines from the distance, and eventually the door opens and a woman who’s a few years older than me greets me from a wheelchair. I notice her purple eyeliner and her smock, splashed with paint.

  ‘Hi. I’m Maz, the vet. Ms Diamond?’

  ‘It’s Penny. Thank you for coming so quickly …’ She spins her chair so she ends up facing down the hall and all I can see is the back of her head: the piece of ragged tie-dyed sheet tied like a bandanna and the wooden beads that adorn her multicoloured locks of hair. ‘Sally’s this way.’

  She waves me past her into some kind of studio set up with an easel, and stacks of canvasses, some virgin white, others painted with eerie landscapes, some in the stark light of a fiery sun, others dark with slanting rain. I’m not sure how best to describe them: impressionistic or amateurish. Who am I to criticise, though, when I can’t draw or paint to save my life?

  ‘I’m sorry about the mess. When the estate agent described it as bijou, I didn’t appreciate quite how small the place was.’ Penny points towards the far corner of the room. ‘There’s Sally over there. I’m really worried – I’ve never seen her like this.’

  I step around the easel, taking care not to tread on any of the tubes of paint scattered across the floor, so I can get close to a rather beautiful golden retriever with a pink nose and dark brown eyes. She stands in the corner in a harness attached to a short lead, panting and dribbling, her belly swollen so big she could pass as a cartoon dog.

  ‘She had Christmas dinner early.’ Penny twists the silver fretwork ring on her finger. ‘She stole mine from the worktop: turkey, sprouts, stuffing, the lot.’

  ‘When was that?’ I’m trying to keep calm, but I’m looking at Sally and thinking, Very sick dog, not much time.

  ‘About two hours ago. Declan, my carer – he comes in twice a day – took her out for a good run afterwards. “To get her to use up the extra calories,” he said. Apparently she drank lots from the stream on the way back, and since then her stomach’s been getting bigger and bigger.’ Penny’s freckled face crumples. ‘I’m afraid she’s going to burst.’

  The dog groans and retches. Strings of saliva dangle from her jowls and make a sticky pool on the floor.

  ‘Is there something you can do? An injection? Tablets?’

  ‘I wish it was that simple. I’m going to have to take her straight to the surgery. She might have to stay with us for a while.’

  ‘I don’t think I can bear the thought of Christmas without her.’

  ‘It’s a shame, but …’ It’s non-negotiable. If Sally’s got any chance of survival it’s back at Otter House, not here in the wilds of Talyford.

  ‘I rely on Sally,’ Penny cuts in. ‘She picks things off the floor for me, fetches the phone …’

  ‘I see.’ Now I understand why the dog’s wearing a lead and harness indoors, and I can feel the pressure piling on as Penny chatters away as if she can’t stop, a side effect of living alone, I suspect. At least, I’m assuming she lives alone. Opposite the window that looks out onto a tidy lawn and shrubbery, there’s a wall with photos, including wedding pictures of a younger and much slimmer Penny in a 1920s-style ivory dress, standing beside a rather striking groom who has spiky hair and red drainpipe trousers.

  ‘It’s serious, isn’t it?’ Penny’s voice quavers. ‘I can tell from your face. She isn’t going to die?’

  Not if I can help it, I think, but I refrain from giving grounds for optimism. I don’t want to raise Penny’s hopes.

  ‘Is there anyone who can be with you? Anyone you can go and stay with?’ I ask, worried how she’s going to cope, practically and emotionally.

  ‘I can’t impose on Declan. He offered to stay all day tomorrow, but I told him he mustn’t because he has his own friends. I can’t ask my sister because she’s in York with her kids. Sally’s my family now. Sally, darling,’ Penny calls. At the sound of the sob that catches in her owner’s throat, the dog looks up momentarily before returning to stare at a paint spot on the stone floor as if she’s depending on it for her survival. ‘What will I do without you?’

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’ I take Sally by her lead and coax her out along the hall, following Penny, who opens the front door for us. ‘I’ll call you when I have any news.

  ‘Hurry up, Sally,’ I add, but once outside, Sally refuses to clamber into the front of my car so, with the sleet stinging the back of my neck, I have to half lift, half force her in. Her limbs are stiff and her claws scrape the paintwork. Her hard belly pings and pops like gas bubbling through an airlock
on a demijohn.

  ‘For an assistance dog, you aren’t being terribly helpful,’ I tell her as I sit her in the footwell on the passenger side, praying she won’t be sick.

  When I glance back at the Old Forge as I drive away, I catch sight of Penny at the window with a tissue pressed to her nose. Life isn’t fair, is it? I can’t imagine what it must be like confined to a wheelchair and dependent on other people – and a dog. I’m not sure I’d consider Sally a pair of safe paws.

  I call ahead to the practice to ask Frances to warn Izzy to prepare theatre.

  ‘Izzy isn’t in this afternoon,’ Frances says. ‘She’s gone into Exeter to do some last-minute shopping.’

  ‘Oh?’ I’d forgotten. ‘You’d better tell Emma, then. I’ve got a possible GDV.’

  ‘What’s that in English, Maz?’ says Frances, then before I can explain that it’s a case of bloat with added complications, she adds, ‘No, don’t worry – I’ve got it.’

  ‘Cheers, Frances.’ I drive on back across the ford, slowly and steadily in first gear, and right in the middle, slowly and steadily, the car shudders and rolls to a stop, the engine cuts out and water starts flooding into the footwell, turning my feet to blocks of ice. Sally clambers onto the passenger seat and starts panting steamy breaths of fermenting sprouts into my face. I fiddle with the key in the ignition and press my foot to the floor, but nothing happens. The headlights of a vehicle come flaring through the rear window behind me, and the driver starts hooting at me to get out of the way.

  What can I do, though? I think, as the water rushes on past and the hooting continues. What’s wrong with people? It’s pretty obvious I’m not going anywhere fast. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, annoyed at whoever is behind me, but above all with myself because Sally’s chances are slipping away with every minute that passes.

  I shove the door open. ‘Maz? Maz!’ someone yells over the sound of splashing.