Page 14 of The Holiday Cottage

“The vet says Midas is going to be fine.”

“Right. So when are you picking him up?”

“Picking him up?” As the web of lies tightened around her she felt a flicker of panic.

“I assume the vet isn’t going to deliver him to you personally?”

“Oh—no, of course not. I’ll be going there myself. Although now you mention it, it would be great if they could deliver. Like pizza.”Stop talking, Imogen.“I’m going tomorrow. They want to keep him for one more night. To be sure.”

“To be sure of what? What was wrong with him?”

“They still don’t know exactly. They said they’d give me a full report when I’m there in person.” She made a mental note to research a few doggy illnesses sufficiently serious to require observation, but not life-threatening.

“If you need to work from home on Monday so that you can look after him, that’s fine.”

Work from home? If a fictitious dog was this demanding, it was a good thing she didn’t have a real one.

“I don’t need to work from home, Rosalind. I have a brilliant dog sitter and she is always happy to help me out with situations like this. I have three events on Monday, so I’ll be zipping around London trying to be in three places at once. You know how it is.” Actually, Rosalind probably didn’t know how it was, because Rosalind never attended events in person anymore. She’d set up her own company and proceeded to recruit good people who did the bulk of the client-facing work.

“Your dog sitter sounds like a treasure. You must give me her details,” Rosalind said. “It’s a constant struggle to find anyone reliable. The last dog walker I used was a disaster.”

Imogen made a sympathetic sound, as if this was a topic she understood.Ask an open question, she thought. That way she wasn’t the one doing the talking. “What happened?”

“She walked so many she lost track. And sometimes she lost the actual dogs. Fortunately, they’re all tagged. But I’m on my fifth this year.”

“Your fifth?” Imogen was about to say that was a lot of dogs to get through, when she realized Rosalind was talking about dog walkers. “Right. Well, yes, it’s always hard finding good people.”

“Do you think yours might be able to fit my Daisy in? She’s good with other dogs. Usually. Bites very rarely.”

“I think the person I use is full at the moment,” Imogen said quickly, “but if she gets a space, I’ll let you know.”

“Yes, do that.” Rosalind smiled at her. “Well, if you’re sure about the account.”

“I’m sure.” Imogen saw the time and realized how late it was. She was approaching the time when mugging might become murder. She stood up. “Thanks, Rosalind. I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Yes. And I hope Midas is okay and your vet bill not too scary!”

At least fictitious dogs were cheap. That was one thing. Complicated, but cheap.

Imogen left the office feeling buoyant. They’d won another account!

She smiled as she took the stairs down to the ground floor (Janie’s obsession with her step count had rubbed off on her). Her footsteps echoed in the stairwell as she headed down to street level, thinking about the conversation with Rosalind.

For a moment there she’d been afraid that Rosalind wasn’t going to give her the account, which was ridiculous because she wasfine.And she definitely wasn’t burned-out, or even on the edge of burning out.

She had no idea what had stimulated that conversation, but she needed to be more careful.

She’d stop sending emails in the middle of the night. It drew attention that she didn’t want or need. Same with sending emails on Christmas Day. It seemed that normal people didn’t do that. At least, not people with the type of life she pretended to be living. If she was really who she pretended to be, she’d be walking Midas in the crisp cold winter air and returning to the big house in the country to gather round the kitchen table with her loved ones. It was family season and she wouldn’t even think about work because she’d be so caught up in the festivities.

That was a slip on her part, but she wasn’t going to slip again.

This year she’d write all the emails she needed to write and save them in drafts. Then she’d send them on January 2. Anya would still return to the same number of emails, but it would raise fewer eyebrows.

She walked across the foyer, said good-night to the staff at the desk and did the dance of death with the revolving glass door that threatened to end people’s careers and lives on a daily basis.

The cold punched her, and she buttoned her coat and wrapped her scarf around her neck.

They were forecasting an exceptionally hard winter. The bookies had stopped taking bets on the chances of a white Christmas in London, even though such a thing was a rarity.

---