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“That was Carmel, my dogwalker,” he says. “It’s Paul.” And then he turns and jogs away.

I go to follow, but I’m stopped by an older lady asking about the capacity of the built-in fridges. I want to tell her no one cares about the capacity of the built-in fridges and that something is the matter with Paul, and right now, that’s the priority. But then Jamal comes round the corner, and I know it won’t go down well in my appraisal if I start yelling at customers and telling them I don’t give a shit about fridge measurements, so I try to still my pounding heart as I plaster on my best “happy to help” smile and lead the lovely old lady over to the built-in fridge in the Winchester kitchen.

She natters away about milk cartons and storage boxes and large plates when all I can think about is Owen, the look on his face when he took that call, and the sound of his voice when he told me it was about Paul.

By six o’clock, I’m a nervous wreck. How I’ve managed to get through the day, I have no idea. I spent my lunch break in the garden, holding my phone and praying Owen would text me. I sent him one message saying I hoped everything was okay, but I haven’t heard anything from him, which I’m not sure is good or bad.

Thoughts of what he must be going through have invaded me all afternoon. As if the guy hasn’t got enough to contend with—his own failing health, and now Paul.

I leave work presuming I’ve lost a stone in weight due to worry. For a second, I don’t know what to do or where to go. I can’t go home. I just can’t. I’m frantic. And I can’t go to Owen’s as I’ve no idea where he lives.

An idea forms.

It takes me forty minutes to get to Smithy’s house and another four to find a parking space. I abandon my car and run up to their front door. I refrain from frantically hammering on it, not wanting to scare the girls, and Smithy answers after a few moments.

“Hey, Alice.” He beams. “You here to brush the kids’ hair?” He holds the door open but must read the look on my face. He closes it to him, shielding us from the rest of the house, as I hear Romana call out, asking who it is. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

I have to hold everything in to stop myself from crying.

“It’s Owen. I’m worried about him. He got a call while he was at work today, and he left. He looked so scared and frightened and… oh God.” My hand shoots to my mouth.

“Hey, it’s all right. Come in.” He steps to the side, and I’m ushered into the kitchen, where Romana’s making tea.

“Alice, how lovely,” she says, already reaching for another cup. “The girls are at a friend’s house, but I have a twenty-minute window before I have to pick them up….” Her voice trails off when she looks at me and then at her husband. “What is it? Has something happened?” She pulls out a chair, and I sit, my hands clasped in my lap, my breathing coming in fits.

“We were at work today, and Owen got a phone call. He said it was Carmel, and he said it was about Paul. He looked awful, like he was going to throw up, and then he grabbed his things and left, and I haven’t heard from him since, and I’m so worried.”

Smithy runs his hand down his face. “I’ll call him.” He goes to get his phone, and Romana sits next to me.

“He looked scared to death,” I tell her. “He loves that dog. What if he’s run away or been stolen or…?” I can’t finish, so I move on. “And I’m so worried about Owen, what with everything else he has going on.”

“Everything else?” Romana says.

“We talked in the car last night after we left you guys, and he told me he’d love to be with me, but he couldn’t let me have the future he has because it wouldn’t be fair. I kind of worked it out after that, and I went to Owen’s office to talk to him about it this morning. I told him I knew he was dying.”

“Dying?” Romana repeats, her body stiffening.

I look at Romana, her features blurring behind the swelling tears.

“Oh, honey, he isn’t dying.” She smooths her hand over mine.

“He isn’t?” I sniff.

“No. He has his demons, but I can assure you, it isn’t that.”

Before I can breathe a sigh of relief, Smithy steps back into the kitchen, his phone clutched to his chest, his face ashen.

“I got through to him. He’s at home.”

“Oh God, is he okay?” I ask, but I can already see from Smithy’s face that he’s not okay. Nothing is okay, and it feels like it’ll never be okay again, because as he glances at Romana, his eyes swimming, she gets up and goes to put her arm around her husband.

“Andy, what is it?” she asks gently.

Smithy gulps before looking at the floor, his hand shaking. “Paul passed away this morning.”

37

Owen