Trust Me, I'm a Vet by Cathy Woodman Read Free Book Online Page A

used to say, “don’t you dare, on pain of a lingering death, lay a finger on the equipment.”’
    ‘All right, I’ll ask Nigel to sort it out later.’ I tell Lynsey that we’ll send her an invoice.
    ‘That’s great,’ she says. ‘I’m a little short this week – I could do with a bit of free credit.’
    I help her load Cadbury and the boys into the Land Rover parked outside. Not the most successful start. So far, I’ve taken no money, seen hardly any clients and the computer’s crashed. The responsibility of running my best friend’s practice is beginning to weigh far more heavily on my shoulders than I imagined it would.
    I’m missing Crossways, the comforting sounds of the city, the constant swish of traffic, the jets flying in and out of Heathrow, and the rumble and whirr of the trains, and it’s even quieter here in Otter House at night than it is in the daytime. You can hear the house breathing: the creak of a door upstairs as it rocks on its hinges; the intermittent firing up of the boiler; and from out the back, the higher pitched hum of the freezer (for dead animal bodies, not your Ben & Jerry’s).
    I turn the radio on for company, then, having checked on Freddie under the stairs, I head back up to the flat as quickly as I can, just in time to grab my mobile, which is ringing out the theme to Casualty (one of the nurses I used to work with downloaded it for a bit of a laugh) from beneath a copy of Vet News .
    It’s Emma.
    ‘Hi, how’s it going?’ she says.
    ‘Where are you?’
    ‘Dubai . . .’ she says, and I remember that she and Ben were planning to visit one of Ben’s doctor friends who’s living out there. ‘Is everything OK? Have you remembered to feed Miff?’
    ‘Yes, of course. I even took her for a walk before work.’ I tell Emma about the man on the horse, but I don’t mention the ditch. Neither do I mention Miff slipping her collar nor the muddy tummy-prints she’s left on the carpet in the flat. ‘He was so rude. I don’t know who the hell he thinks he is,’ I go on.
    ‘God’s gift,’ Emma says. ‘That has to be Alex, son of Old Fox-Gifford.’
    ‘From Talyton Manor? The other practice? So he’s one of the vets there?’ I take a deep breath. ‘He said his father would have had us shot if he’d found us. Me and the dog!’
    ‘I wouldn’t put it past him,’ Emma goes on. ‘I’ve told you before, the Fox-Giffords don’t behave like normal people. They’re like the Triads of Talyton St George. Oh, I hope they aren’t going to give you grief.’
    ‘Stop worrying, Emma – you’re supposed to be de-stressing. I’ll cope. It’s so quiet here, it’ll be a complete doddle.’
    ‘Quiet?’ she says, sounding a little hurt.
    ‘I mean it’s quiet compared to Crossways,’ I say quickly, not wanting to offend her, although I’ve been wondering how on earth she makes a living out of the practice.
    ‘Actually, things have been a bit slow recently,’ she admits. ‘Talyton Manor Vets introduced discount microchipping and a vaccination amnesty and a load of my clients left to take advantage of it. I guess some of them will drift back eventually.’ She changes the subject abruptly. ‘How are you getting on with Frances?’
    ‘All right,’ I say non-committally, but I can tell Emma doesn’t believe me.
    ‘I should have treated taking on a new receptionist more like buying a horse,’ she sighs. ‘I should have vetted her more thoroughly – checked her teeth, at least.’
    ‘Are you going to keep checking up on me,’ I ask, smiling to myself, ‘only you’re supposed to be on holiday?’
    ‘I didn’t realise it would be so difficult to let go,’ Emma admits.
    ‘Let’s make a deal then. Don’t call me again. Go and make the most of your time off.’ I take it from Emma’s silence that she isn’t convinced. It must be difficult for her: she’s invested everything in Otter House – time, energy, money and emotion. ‘I promise I’ll ring you