Best of Friends. Cathy KellyЧитать онлайн книгу.
lot of people say they can’t afford it.’
‘There should be government funding to help.’ Jess was outraged at the thought of thousands of unwanted baby animals being dumped.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Jess.’
‘I like the way your mind works, Jess. If you’re keen on animals, do you fancy doing a bit of volunteering at the centre? We can always do with helpers to feed kittens and pups, not to mention the less savoury parts of cleaning out the kennels.’
‘Oh, I’d love it.’ Jess’s eyes shone. The woman saw that suddenly she wasn’t understated at all, but very pretty, with a brilliant smile sparkling with vivacity and intelligence. ‘I’m at school, though.’
‘Dogs need feeding on Saturdays and Sundays, and maybe you’d have time in the evenings and holidays as well,’ the woman said matter-of-factly. ‘I’m Jean Harvey. The number’s in the book and the address is too. We’re on the Old Farm Road. Take the bus to Little Dunmore, but get off at the Snow Hill crossroads and we’re up the left road about a hundred yards. Make sure your parents don’t mind you helping out and they can phone me if they want.’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ promised Jess, kissing Twiglet’s velvety head goodbye.
Jean strode off to a filthy green Land Rover and Jess turned up the road for home. She felt a strange tingle of excitement at this new plan. She loved animals, and this opportunity to work with them was wonderful. She’d have to make sure that poor Wilbur wasn’t jealous. He was her darling, but sweet, adorable Twiglet was so cute too. She idly wondered what would happen to him when he was older. Surely the centre found new homes for unwanted puppies. Wouldn’t it be fabulous if she could take him home and care for him? Now that they lived in Lyonnais, they had loads of room for a dog.
Caught up in her dreams, Jess walked home with a smile on her face that her mother would have barely recognised.
Abby spent most of Saturday hacking back the undergrowth at the bottom of the front garden, screeching every time another horror-movie-sized spider appeared. Somehow, her hard-wearing garden gloves had vanished and she was stuck with flimsy cotton ones that were suitable for a bit of gentle bulb planting on a patio, perhaps, but not for Indiana Jones-style jungle-busting.
Tom was no help. He’d woken up that morning complaining of flu, and was now lounging in the kitchen, with the weekend papers spread out in front of him, wearing an expression that said his sniffles, headache and runny nose were undoubtedly symptoms of something much more serious than just flu.
‘I’ve got so much homework to mark,’ he said wearily, ‘but my head aches, my muscles are weak and I just don’t feel myself.’
Abby, who’d done the supermarket, dry-cleaner’s and organic vegetable shopping trip that morning, and who’d have liked nothing more than to flop down with the papers and a coffee, managed to keep quiet. She’d nearly ruptured herself hauling grocery bags in from the Jeep and now she had to work on the garden because it looked so overgrown and she simply couldn’t face another week of seeing the mess. It was Tom who’d insisted that having someone come in occasionally to do the garden was an unnecessary expense and that he would help out.
By half three, Abby was tired, scratched and dirty. Some steaming hot tea and a biscuit or three might give her the impetus to spend another couple of hours in the garden. Then she’d treat herself to a soak in a hot bubble bath and get ready for Steve and Sally’s party.
Tom was no longer sitting at the kitchen table, although the papers were still strewn across it, while a dirty mug and blueberry muffin crumbs on the worktop were evidence that the invalid had felt well enough to enjoy a snack. Hitting the kettle switch with the back of her hand, Abby went in search of him.
She found him in the living room, with the sports channel on and no sign of the much vaunted homework anywhere.
Tom glanced around and noticed his wife standing at the door, arms folded and lips tight.
‘Don’t give me that look,’ he snapped, turning back to the football.
‘What look?’ demanded Abby, marching up to the couch.
‘Your “I’m working and you’re lying around” look,’ he replied. ‘The martyred look.’
‘Well, I am working.’ She wouldn’t lower herself by replying to the martyr crack.
‘Nobody told you to,’ he retorted.
Abby burned with the injustice of it. Nobody had told her to, for sure, but if she didn’t tidy up or get the groceries, who would?
‘I wouldn’t have to work in the garden if you weren’t such a Scrooge about having someone come in twice a year to cut back the undergrowth,’ she snapped. ‘Somebody has to tidy up this place.’
‘Oh, that’s it, is it?’ he growled. ‘It’s all my fault. I said I’d help. I’m just not doing it this weekend.’
‘Or last weekend or the weekend before that!’ Abby said. ‘The garden has looked like a disaster area for the past two months but you’ve done nothing.’
Tom finally gave up staring at the television. ‘Can’t you see that I’m tired?’ he said. ‘Tired of rushing round getting this house sorted out, tired of work, tired full stop.’
‘And I’m not tired?’ she demanded. ‘No, I forgot, you have the patent on tiredness because you have a proper job, don’t you, Tom? I only have my little television series and my house decluttering business, none of it as serious as being a precious deputy headmaster. Oh yes, and I have the housework and the grocery shopping and the laundry –’
‘Mrs Regan does the housework,’ he interrupted.
‘Twice a week for two hours at a time,’ Abby yelled back. ‘She keeps the place ticking over but I have to do the hard grind. Inside and out! Do you have any idea how much work it takes to run a house, to do laundry, shopping, cooking, cleaning? Oh no, I forgot. You think Cooking and Cleaning are two towns in China.’
‘Spare me the sarcasm,’ he said acidly. ‘Are you running through your answers for a newspaper interview on the successful working woman? Is that it? You’re going to tell everyone how hard it is for the modern career woman because she has to juggle a job and housework, with a lazy lout of a husband who does nothing and doesn’t appreciate her efforts?’
This was so precisely what had been running through Abby’s mind that she could say nothing for a moment, but just glare at him. Finally, she found her voice. ‘If you know what’s wrong with me, why don’t you do anything about it?’ she snapped.
‘It’s not my aim in life to please you all the time, Abby,’ Tom said with grim relish. ‘They may do that in Beech TV studios, where you’re queen of all you survey, but not here. Not in our home.’
‘That’s utterly unfair,’ she yelled back. ‘I’m not a bit like that and you know it! All I’m asking for is a little help around the house. You used to help, but now you do nothing. Since we moved to this house, I don’t think you’ve done one week’s grocery shopping or have loaded the washing machine once. It wouldn’t kill you to make an effort.’
‘You were the one who wanted to go back to work,’ he pointed out.
‘And you’re the one who enjoys the benefits of the extra money,’ she replied, without thinking of what she was saying.
‘Oh yes, never let me forget that, will you? You’re the successful one, the famous one, I’m only the boring old husband standing in the wings.’ Abby was shocked at the bitterness in his voice. ‘You love that, don’t you, Abby? You love making more money than me. You love rubbing my nose in it.’
‘No, I don’t,’ she said quietly, before walking out.
Her hands