Love Your Life(2)

    I’ve sworn I won’t cry, but tears are brimming in my eyes as I gaze at his bright, intelligent face. My Harold. Best beagle in the world. Best dog in the world. Best person in the world.

“Harold can’t wait to stay with me,” says Nell firmly, ushering us both into the living room. “Can you, Harold?”

In answer, Harold screws up his face still more and gives a soul-shattering whine.

“That dog should go on the stage,” says Sarika, glancing up at him from her laptop with an amused look. Sarika isn’t really a dog person—she admits as much—but she’s a Harold person. You can’t meet Harold and not be a Harold person.

I found Harold at a rescue center four years ago when he was just a puppy, and it was instant, utter devotion. He looked up at me, his eyes bright, his breath all snuffly and excited, and he seemed to be saying, “There you are! I knew you’d come!”

I’m not saying it was plain sailing. I’d never had a dog before. I’d longed for one as a child, but my parents were the type who keep vaguely promising, then it never happens. So I was a beginner at looking after a dog. And Harold was a beginner at being looked after. Because, believe me, he was not looked after by the people who abandoned him on the side of the A414. That was not looking after him. Just thinking about it makes me feel hot and bothered.

Anyway, so it’s been a learning curve. When Harold first arrived at my flat, he had a freak-out. He was quite clearly saying, “What have I done, agreeing to live with you?” And I had similar wobbles. There was quite a lot of howling, on both sides. But now I can’t imagine life without him. Yet here I am, planning to leave him for a week.

    Maybe I should cancel. Yes. I should cancel.

“Ava, stop stressing. You realize he’s trying to make you feel bad?” says Nell. She turns to Harold and surveys him sternly. “Listen, mate, I don’t fall for your hammy act. Ava can go on holiday without you. It’s allowed. So stop giving her a hard time.”

For a long moment Harold and Nell lock eyes—two huge personalities confronting each other—then at last Harold subsides. He gives me another reproachful look but pads over to the hearth rug by Nell’s chair and settles down.

OK, maybe I won’t cancel.

“Do not apologize to him,” says Nell to me. “And do not waste all week mooning over videos of Harold instead of writing your book.”

“I won’t!” I say defensively.

“We’ll be fine,” she reiterates. “Fine.”

I don’t have many life tips. But one of them is: If you’re ever feeling sorry for yourself, visit Nell. She’s tough in all the right places. She bounces back stupid thoughts at you. Her matter-of-fact attitude whips through you like a gust of sharp, cold air.

“Here’s all his stuff.” I dump my massive bag on the floor. “Bed, water bowl, blanket, food…Oh, his essential oils!” I suddenly remember, taking the bottle from my bag. “I’ve made him a new blend, lavender and cedarwood. You just have to spritz his—”

“Bedding.” Nell cuts me off. “Ava, relax. You’ve already sent me five emails about this, remember?” She takes the bottle from me and scrutinizes it briefly before putting it down. “That reminds me, I’ve been meaning to ask. Whatever happened to your aromatherapy qualification?”

    “Oh,” I say, halted. “I’m still…doing it. Kind of.”

My mind flicks back to my aromatherapy books and bottles, shoved to the side in my kitchen. I’m doing an online course, and I must get back to it, because I’m definitely still interested in becoming a part-time aromatherapist.

“Kind of?” queries Nell.

“It’s on pause. It’s just, with work, and writing this book…You know.” I heave a sigh. “Life gets in the way.”

My job is writing pharmaceutical leaflets and online copy, which I can pretty much do in my sleep by now. I work for a drug company called Brakesons Inc., based in Surrey. It’s fine, I like the firm, and they let me work mostly at home. But I’m always trying to expand my horizons. If you ask me, life’s too short not to expand your horizons. You should always be thinking: This is OK…but what else could I be doing?

“All the more reason to go to Italy and focus on writing your book,” says Nell firmly. “Harold wants you to do that. Don’t you, Harold?”

In answer, Harold emits a soulful “wahoo!”—sometimes he sounds just like a wolf—and Nell laughs. She ruffles Harold’s head with her strong stubby hand and says, “Idiot dog.”

We’ve been friends since Manchester uni. Nell, Sarika, Maud, and I all met in the university choir and bonded on a tour to Bremen. Sarika had barely spoken a word till then; all we knew about her was that she was studying law and could sing a top C. But after a few drinks she revealed she was secretly sleeping with the conductor and their sex life was getting a bit “dark.” So now she wanted to dump him but also stay in the choir, and what did we think? We spent a whole night drinking German beer and discussing it, while also trying to elicit what “dark” meant, exactly.

    (In the end, Nell crashed her glass down and said, “Just bloody tell us, OK?”)

(It was a bit gross. Not worth repeating, or even thinking about.)