A Surprise Christmas Proposal. Liz Fielding

boy.’ He responded happily to a scratch behind the ear and I gave him a pound, too, which more or less cancelled out my economy with the taxi. ‘Buy yourself a bone on me.’

      I went in through the back entrance to the flats so that I could feed the little stripey cat who’d made a home there. She appeared at the first sound of kibble rattling in the dish. She was so predictable. Then I walked through to the lifts, grateful that my ‘guests’ were away for an entire week and determined to make a serious start on the job hunting front.

      There were distractions waiting for me in the lobby, however.

      I might be trying to ignore my birthday, but nobody else was taking the hint. The porter had a pile of cards for me, as well as a parcel from my sister—who was away visiting her in-laws for a family celebration—and some totally knockout flowers.

      There was a whopping big bunch of sunflowers—my absolute favourite, and heaven alone knew where the florist had managed to get them this late in the year—from Ginny and Rich. I felt a lump forming in my throat. I was practically certain that it was a rule of being on honeymoon that you were supposed to be totally self-centred and forget that the rest of the world existed. I touched the bright petals. Not Ginny…

      There was an orchid in a pot from Philly, too. I hadn’t seen my here-today-gone-tomorrow next door neighbour in ages. She and Cal were always flitting off to some corner of a foreign field, or jungle, or mountain range to film exotic fauna. Neither of them had allowed the arrival of their baby daughter to slow them down, but just carried her along with them, papoose-style, wherever they went.

      I’d have been okay if the arrangement of pale pink roses hadn’t been from my mother.

      I sniffed. Loudly. I refused to cry. I did not cry—I’d used up all the tears I was ever going to shed over Perry Fotheringay—but it was a close-run thing. Everyone in the world I loved was married, or away on an adventure, or busy getting a life. Not that I begrudged any of them one bit of happiness or success. I was just a little bit tired of endlessly playing the dizzy bridesmaid and doing my best to avoid catching the bouquet tossed so carefully in my direction before waving them off on their new lives. That was all.

      I opened the package from my sister. Nestling inside the layers of tissue paper, I found a pot of industrial strength anti-wrinkle cream, support stockings and a pair of ‘big knickers’. The card—’Over the hill? What hill? I didn’t see any hill…’—that went with it contained a voucher for a day of total pampering with all the extras at a luxury spa. It was exactly what I needed.

      A laugh and a bit of luxury.

      I was still grinning when the phone began to ring. I picked it up, expecting to hear a raucous chorus of ‘Happy Birthday to you’ from one of the gang I hung around with.

      ‘Sophie Harrington—single, sexy and celebrating—’

      ‘Miss Harrington?’ Miss Frosty’s voice froze the smile on my face. ‘How are you with dogs?’

      ‘Dogs?’

      She wanted me to wash dogs?

      ‘One of our clients needs a dog-walker, and it occurred to me that this might be something you could do.’

      Oh, very funny.

      If this was her idea of ‘changing my life’ she could keep it. I’d go somewhere else. I cleared my throat, about to tell her what she could do with her dog-walking job; I just about managed to stop myself from saying it.

      I’d said ‘anything’. If this was a test I wasn’t about to fail it just because I was too proud to walk someone’s dog for money. Not when I’d probably have done it for nothing, if asked nicely. Who was I kidding? Not probably—I’d have volunteered like a shot. I loved dogs. They were always the same. Up-front and honest. They had no hidden agendas, no secrets. They never let you down.

      ‘How much an hour?’ I asked. Since I hadn’t been asked nicely, I might as well be businesslike about it.

      She told me.

      A dog-walker didn’t rate as much per hour as a secretary, but if I was totally honest I had to admit that I could walk a lot better than I could type. And I couldn’t afford to be choosy.

      ‘Two hours a day—first thing in the morning and again in the evening,’ she continued. ‘It will leave you ample time to fit in other jobs during the day.’

      ‘Great,’ I said, the spectre of greasy ovens looming large. But it occurred to me that not only would I have a little money coming in—and I wasn’t in any position to turn that down—I’d also have plenty of time to work on my career plan. Look for a proper job. ‘When do I start?’

      ‘This afternoon. It’s a bit of a crisis situation.’

      Naturally. Some idle bloke couldn’t be bothered to walk his own dogs and it was a crisis.

      ‘That’s not a problem, is it?’

      ‘Well, it is my birthday,’ I replied sweetly. ‘But I can take an hour out from the endless round of fun to walk a dog.’

      ‘Two dogs.’

      ‘Do I get paid per dog?’ I asked. ‘Or was the rate quoted for both of them?’ I was learning ‘businesslike’ fast.

      ‘You’re being paid for an hour of your time, Miss Harrington, not per dog.’

      ‘So I’d be paid the same if I was walking one dog?’

      I thought it was a fair question, but she didn’t bother to answer. All she said was, ‘The client’s name is York. Gabriel York. If you’ve got a pen handy, I’ll give you the address.’

      I grabbed my new kitty notebook, with its matching pen, and wrote it down. Then, since the ability to put one foot in front of the other without falling over was the only potential of mine that Miss Frosty-Face was prepared to tap, I registered with a couple of online agencies who might ignore me but at least wouldn’t be rude to my face.

      CHAPTER TWO

      I WAS late. It wasn’t my fault, okay? People had kept phoning me to see what I was doing to celebrate my birthday. No one had believed me when I’d said nothing. They’d just laughed and said, ‘No, really—what are you doing?’ and in the end I’d relented and promised I’d meet Tony down the pub at nine o’clock.

      Then my mother had phoned from South Africa, wanting to tell me about everything she’d been doing—well, obviously not everything—and I could hardly say I had more important things to do, could I?

      Anyway, it was hardly a matter of life or death. Dogs couldn’t tell the time and I didn’t have to rush off anywhere else. They’d get their hour. Start twenty minutes late; finish twenty minutes late. Sorted.

      Gabriel York’s address proved to be a tall, elegant, terraced house in a quiet cul-de-sac untroubled by through traffic. Its glossy black front door was flanked by a pair of perfectly clipped bay trees which stood in reproduction Versailles boxes; no one in their right mind would leave the genuine lead antiques on their doorstep, even if it would take a crane to lift them. The brass door furniture had the well-worn look that only came from generations of domestics applying serious elbow grease—a fate, I reminded myself, that awaited me unless I gave some serious thought to my future.

      The whole effect was just too depressingly perfect for words. Like something out of a costume drama, where no one was interested in the reality of the mud or the smell of nineteenth-century London.

      This was a street made for designer chic and high, high heels, and I felt about as out of place as a lily on the proverbial dung heap.

      My own fault, entirely.

      I’d stupidly forgotten to ask what kind of dogs Mr York owned, and since there was no way I was going to call back and ask Miss Frosty to enlighten me I’d gone for the worst-case scenario, assuming something large and muscular, times two, and dressing accordingly.