Puppies Are For Life. Linda Phillips

       CHAPTER 1

      After the first major row of their married lives Susannah and Paul Harding slunk separately to their bedroom and spent the night back to back.

      In the morning they glared into their muesli bowls, cast agonised glances at their watches, and dashed out to their respective cars. She didn’t remind him that he’d left his sandwiches in the fridge. And he didn’t tell her about the mascara on her cheek.

      But he did mutter something about seeing a doctor.

      I do not need to see a doctor, she fumed silently as she scrubbed at her face in the office cloakroom later that morning. All I need is an understanding husband.

      Then, much to the dismay of her friend Molly, who happened to be applying lipstick beside her, she burst into helpless tears.

      ‘I thought everything was hunky dory these days,’ said Molly, steering her red-eyed companion away from the row of chipped china sinks and along the concrete corridors of C & G Electronics in the direction of the canteen.

      ‘Everything’s fine,’ Susannah tried to assure her friend. ‘It’s just me, being very silly. Oh lord, what’s Duffy doing there? I don’t want him to see me like this.’

      Mr Duffy, their boss, was hovering by the Flexi machine.

      ‘Just checking up on us.’ Molly grunted. ‘Has to make sure we checked out before we powdered our noses.’ She pushed through the doors of the canteen where a strong combination of boiled cabbage and chips assailed them, and quickly changed course for the salad bar.

      ‘Things don’t sound fine to me,’ she said, picking up a tray.

      ‘Well, they are,’ Susannah insisted. She eyed limp brown lettuce leaves through the Perspex display unit, opted for grated carrot with watercress, and shuffled listlessly on. ‘Buying the cottage was the best thing we ever did. It’s been lovely decorating and settling in; wonderful to have no one to please but ourselves. We can watch what we like on the television, go for Sunday lunch at a pub. It’s wonderful … only –’ Her pale face clouded over.

      ‘So what’s the problem?’ Molly prompted when they had paid up and threaded their way to a vacant table. Dumping her tray among the previous occupant’s debris she settled her majestic figure on one of the chairs. ‘No, don’t tell me,’ she said, raising her hands, ‘let me guess. Er … the authentic gnarled old beams have got woodworm? Or the Aga’s set fire to the thatch?’

      Susannah flapped a hand at her friend, smiling a little in spite of herself. ‘Of course not! Would the surveyor have passed

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