It's a Vet's Life Page 7

  ‘She’s always starving.’ Bridget shrugs. ‘Daisy’s like me. Neither of us are any good at sticking to a diet. Maz, if this is diabetes, what are we talking about, treatment-wise?’

  ‘It will mean daily insulin injections, and a strict diet and exercise regime, but you have a vet nurse to do all of that for you, and we’re just around the corner if you need any help or advice.’

  ‘Thanks, Maz.’ Bridget pauses. ‘Shannon’s been telling me that you’re getting married. I’m sorry if I’m speaking out of turn, but I’d be more than happy to talk flowers with you – even if you don’t choose to order them from me. I can advise you about winter blooms and foliage, and give you an idea of whether or not you’re getting a good deal. You’ve been so kind to Shannon … and Daisy. It would be a pleasure.’

  ‘Actually, I haven’t thought about flowers yet,’ I admit. ‘I’m not terribly organised. Emma and Frances have already decided what I should have, but I’d prefer to make my own choices. Do I have to book an appointment, or just drop in?’

  ‘Why don’t you drop in one night after work when I’m not busy in the shop. Come in for a glass of wine and nibbles.’

  ‘Thanks. That would be great.’ That will be something else to tick off the list.

  ‘Tonight then?’

  ‘A day next week would suit me better, if that’s all right.’

  ‘We’re back,’ Shannon interrupts, Daisy’s claws tapping along the floor behind her. ‘Success!’ She waves a pot of dog wee at me – with the lid on, I hasten to add. I test it quickly for glucose. It’s positive.

  ‘So, Daisy has diabetes,’ says Shannon.

  ‘We’ll run the blood through the lab to check there’s nothing else going on,’ I say. ‘You can get that done before you go home, can’t you, Shannon? Then I suggest we book Daisy in for a twenty-minute appointment first thing tomorrow morning. If my nine o’clock is booked already, come in for twenty to.’ I hesitate. ‘I’m not planning to give Daisy anything now – we need to get her into a routine. She’s going to have to come in every day until we get her condition stabilised.’

  ‘What about Sunday?’ says Shannon. ‘We don’t have a surgery on a Sunday?’

  ‘Will can see her. He’ll arrange a mutually convenient time.’

  ‘But …’ Shannon hesitates. I know what she’s thinking. Does Will know what he’s doing?

  ‘I’ll have a word with him and let him know where we’re at.’

  ‘Thanks, Maz,’ Shannon says, apparently reassured.

  ‘Um, what are the signs of diabetes?’ says Bridget.

  ‘Polydipsia – that’s drinking lots,’ says Shannon, ‘along with weeing lots and eating lots.’ She smiles. ‘You see, I have been revising. I do know something.’

  ‘So, it’s the same in dogs as it is in humans?’ says Bridget.

  ‘Pretty much so,’ I say.

  ‘It sounds … What happens if you don’t do anything about it?’

  ‘You die,’ I say, putting it bluntly. ‘Eventually, the blood sugar level goes up so high that the body can no longer cope. The uncontrolled diabetic collapses, has fits, then goes into a coma, and that’s it.’

  ‘You are going to let Maz treat her, aren’t you, Mum?’ Shannon says, wide-eyed with concern. ‘You aren’t going to let her die?’

  ‘I shan’t let her die,’ Bridget sighs. ‘I’d better make that appointment.’

  ‘I wish you’d look after yourself like you do the dogs,’ Shannon says quietly. ‘I can bring Daisy in tomorrow morning so you can see the doctor before you open the shop.’

  Bridget doesn’t respond. From her expression, I don’t think she’s being difficult. I think she’s scared.

  ‘Please, Mum,’ Shannon says. ‘For me?’

  ‘Oh, all right. For you,’ Bridget says eventually. ‘Yes, I’ll have a chat with Dr Mackie.’ Shannon glances at me, her face etched with relief.

  Bridget has the last word though. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with me.’

  When I picture the fairy-tale dress, it is a blurry silhouette of off-white silk. I really don’t know what I’m looking for. I hope Emma has a better idea than I do. She gave me some magazines to inspire me. There were some beautiful dresses, too many to choose from.

  ‘Where do we start?’ I ask as we leave the multi-storey car park in Exeter, Devon’s historic cathedral city, and head into the shopping centre.

  ‘In this vast metropolis …’

  ‘You are joking, right.’

  ‘Well, yes, although I’m comparing it with Talyton St George. Anyway, we can try the charity shops if you want the vintage look. We’ve got the department stores, if you want something ready-made and straight off the hanger, so to speak. It might be advisable because you haven’t got much time to order a dress that needs making up from scratch, and have it altered if needs be.’ Emma pauses. ‘You’re bound to lose a few pounds before the wedding day.’

  ‘That won’t be such a bad thing.’ I’m still carrying a couple of kilos of baby weight.

  ‘Does Sophia know you’re out shopping for the dress?’

  ‘I haven’t mentioned it. I don’t want her taking over, Em. I expect her to be offended that I didn’t ask her opinion, but she’s completely out of touch.’

  We make a start in a bridal shop where we are welcomed by an assistant called Cara who appears to have been Botoxed, burnished with fake tan and basted with foundation that doesn’t match the shade of her skin.

  ‘So which of you young ladies is the blushing bride?’ she says, having introduced herself. She wears a navy jacket and skirt, and a diamanté hairclip in the shape of a starfish in her sleek mahogany hair. ‘It’s Maz here,’ says Emma, and if I wasn’t blushing before, I am now.

  ‘Emma’s my wedding planner and matron of honour, if she’ll accept the position.’ I’ve rather sprung it on her, although I can’t imagine her turning it down. ‘Please, Em, I need you to keep Lucie, Seb and George in order.’

  ‘How can I resist? Oh, I’d love to,’ she says, hugging me. ‘I’m so excited. How are we going to choose this dress?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I don’t know where to start.

  Cara steps in.

  ‘Have you a theme for the wedding?’ she asks.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Of course you have,’ says Emma. ‘It’s a country wedding … A Christmas wedding.’

  ‘A Christmas wedding,’ I echo.

  ‘So as well as the dress, you’re going to have to think about how you’ll avoid those blue arms and goose bumps in the photos and video. Of course, these things can be airbrushed out nowadays, but it’s always better not to start with them in the first place. You can still choose quite a revealing dress, if you add a coat or cloak. We have a lovely hooded cape lined with faux fur for the winter season.’ Cara pauses. ‘Take a seat. I’ll fetch some coffee and we can talk through some preliminary ideas.’

  ‘You did remember to wear decent underwear?’ whispers Emma when Cara is on her way back with a cafetière, cups and saucers on a tray.

  ‘Yes, thanks to you.’ I smile.

  ‘What time of day is the actual wedding ceremony?’ Cara asks.

  ‘Late morning, I hope. We still have to agree a time with the vicar.’

  ‘That’s ideal. You know what they say – always get married in the morning. That way, if it all goes pear-shaped, you haven’t wasted the whole day,’ Cara says brightly. ‘Anyway, according to the law of the land, you have to marry in daylight so the groom can see he’s marrying the person he thinks he is.’

  There’s nothing I can say to that, and even Emma appears lost for words.

  ‘Have you thought about your silhouette?’ Cara says. ‘The shape of the dress?’

  ‘I know I don’t want to look like a meringue.’

  ‘Think about highlighting your best bits,’ says Emma. ‘You have a neat bust, slim hips and a flattish stomach. I am so jealous.’

  I’m beginning to feel like an e
xhibit in a show for best pet.

  ‘A column dress might suit you, Maz, or a fishtail shape which hugs the figure then flares out below the knee. We’ll start with those,’ Cara says. ‘How about a train? Are you getting married in a church, registry office or somewhere more exotic?’

  ‘The local church,’ says Emma.

  ‘That’s wonderful. It gives you so much more flexibility when it comes to choosing the train. A cathedral-length would make quite a statement.’ Cara appraises me once more. ‘Let’s try the column dress first. Come through to the changing room and take your clothes off. Have you got your shoes with you?’

  I glance down at my flat pumps.

  ‘They won’t do. You need something with a decent heel. I have a pair you can try for now.’

  I strip down to my underwear and wait, surrounded by mirrors that make me feel completely exposed. I half expect Gok Wan to walk in, but it’s Cara who turns up, laden with dresses. She helps me into the first one, a plain ivory gown with a cowl neck. She zips and buttons me up at the back before tweaking the sides and sticking a few pins into the fabric, making me wince.

  ‘That is gorgeous. You do have a lovely figure.’ She pulls the curtain across to show Emma. ‘Doesn’t she look fabulous?’

  Emma looks me up and down. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘I feel a bit like a nun.’

  ‘We can’t have that,’ Cara says. ‘That won’t put you in the mood for your wedding night, will it. Take it off. I have plenty more.’

  Five dresses later and we are no nearer finding the One.

  ‘This is more difficult than finding a husband,’ I say.

  ‘Well, in both cases, you have to be sure of your choice,’ says Cara. ‘Ah, here’s the one I was looking for. Try this.’

  ‘Go on, Maz,’ Emma says, sensing that I’m already running out of enthusiasm. ‘I tried over a hundred when I was looking for mine.’

  ‘Is that all?’ says Cara. ‘I’ve had brides in here who’ve tried on more than two hundred and fifty before they could make up their minds.’ She pulls the curtains back across, helps me into the next dress and laces it up tightly.

  ‘It’s a smaller size,’ she explains. ‘We can order the next size up,’ but I can see as she steps back and wrinkles her nose that she already knows I’m not going to like it. ‘Personally,’ she goes on, one hand on her hip, ‘I think it’s wrong for you. It’s too bouffant over the hips and it’s making a shelf of your bosom.’

  ‘Would you unlace me, please?’ I can hardly breathe and it’s a relief to discover my ribs are intact, only bruised, as the dress comes off again.

  ‘Don’t worry, Maz,’ Emma calls out. ‘There’s always eBay.’

  ‘I have two more,’ Cara says, unappreciative of Emma’s teasing. ‘There’s the one I describe as being after the Duchess of Cambridge’s style, but it’s white which won’t suit your colouring, although we can obtain one in ivory. Then there’s the mermaid gown – that’s in ivory, with a sequinned bodice and scalloped sleeves. I’ll find that one for you.’

  The mermaid gown is a perfect fit. It’s stunning. I feel several inches taller, very much the princess and definitely not a mermaid.

  ‘I reckon that could be the one,’ says Emma.

  ‘You don’t sound terribly convinced,’ I say.

  ‘It isn’t that … I’m disappointed we’ve found it so soon.’

  ‘Oh, but you still have to choose the shoes, headdress, cape, and bridesmaids’ dresses,’ Cara says quickly. ‘You’ve hardly started yet.’

  ‘It is the one though,’ I agree, smoothing the silk at the front and the back. ‘It fits perfectly.’ A thought occurs to me though and I turn to examine my rear in the mirrors.

  ‘Does my—?’ I begin.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Emma cuts in. ‘There’s nothing wrong with your bum.’

  ‘You have a most shapely derrière,’ says Cara, and I find that the bride is blushing again.

  ‘Whatever you do, don’t let the groom have a sneak preview,’ says Cara. ‘Remember it’s unlucky if he sees the bride in her dress before the wedding.’ She tips her head to one side and smiles, flashing her fiercely white teeth. ‘I’m sure most grooms take advantage of that superstition to avoid long shopping trips with their brides-to-be.’

  ‘Mine does,’ I smile back. ‘Alex hates shopping.’ I turn to Emma. ‘Do you think he’ll like it?’

  ‘Alex won’t be able to keep his eyes – or his hands – off you.’

  Chapter Five

  Pets Win Prizes

  IT’S THE DAY of the Country Show, one of Talyton St George’s annual social events and highlight of the year for many. The weather doesn’t disappoint by breaking with tradition. We’ve had heavy rain overnight and the forecast is for sunshine and showers.

  Recalling my very first experience of the event when I wrecked my coolest pair of pumps in ankle-deep red Devon mud, I choose to wear a practical down-to-earth pair of green wellies. Having gradually morphed from a city girl to a country vet, my transformation is complete with a waxed coat. Do I regret it? I don’t need to express myself through fashion any more, but – call me shallow – I do miss it sometimes. Perhaps I’ll make up for it by choosing something special for the honeymoon.

  Lucie and Seb are staying with us for the weekend and, although we agreed that Alex wouldn’t be on duty, leaving me with the three children when he’s out on a call, guess what – he is.

  Alex and I travel to the showground with George. Sophia drives the horsebox, taking Lucie, Seb and Lucie’s pony who’s entered for the Mounted Games as a member of the Pony Club team.

  Alex parks the four-by-four in the ‘Officials’ section of the field that’s roped off from the other parking, and close to the entrance of the show where we are allowed to bypass the turnstiles for the general public of Talyton St George and from miles around. Once we’re in, Alex pushing George through the wet grass in the buggy, Fifi Green greets us with a balloon on a stick for George. My maternal feelings kick in and I start worrying about George poking his eye out.

  As I bend forward to remove it from his grasp, Alex says, ‘Leave it, Maz. I’m watching.’

  ‘He might hurt himself.’

  ‘He’ll soon learn,’ Alex says.

  I turn back to Fifi, resisting the urge to comment that I don’t want George learning by experience, not yet anyway.

  Fifi’s hair is copper and blonde, with a fixed wave. Her eyelashes have to be false, as are her nails, and probably her teeth. She’s wearing a canary yellow blouse and a navy and yellow spotted A-line skirt, wedge-heeled wellies and a blue beret set at a jaunty angle.

  ‘I hope you appreciate the hat, Maz,’ she says, noticing me looking at it. It isn’t her usual style. ‘We have guests from our twin town here today. It’s my contribution to the entente cordiale.’

  I catch sight of Alex winking at me and try not to giggle. Fifi means well, but she can be over the top sometimes.

  Fifi tweaks the scarf at her neck. She’s getting on a little bit now, in her sixties, but she’s determined not to show it. I don’t blame her. I hope I’m half as energetic at her age.

  ‘Where’s your father?’ she says. ‘I told him to be here half an hour earlier than I wanted him, so he’d be on time. Isn’t he with you?’

  ‘You’ll have to make do with me today,’ Alex says. ‘Father is sick.’

  ‘Sick? Are you sure?’ Fifi says, her voice rising in surprise.

  ‘Quite certain,’ says Alex. ‘I heard it from the horse’s mouth this morning!’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Fifi sounds somewhat deflated.

  ‘You can tell he’s feeling rough if he isn’t here. He wouldn’t normally miss this for anything.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do? I’m sure I can rally the troops to take some chicken soup or crab apple jelly up to the Manor.’

  By the troops, Fifi means the good ladies of the WI, of which she is Chairperson.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,
Fifi.’ Alex flashes me a glance, rolling his eyes. ‘I expect Mother’s thrown a bit of bute into his breakfast.’

  ‘Bute?’ Fifi frowns, wrinkling her brow and I think, Botox can’t have reached Talyton St George just yet, because, if it had, Fifi would have been first in the queue.

  ‘Bute – it’s an anti-inflammatory drug for horses,’ Alex explains. ‘I was joking, Fifi.’

  It takes her a second or two to realise what he’s said, but when it sinks in, she takes Alex’s hand and gives it a tap.

  ‘Naughty boy. You’re just like your father.’

  Not too much like him, I think, amused. I would never have agreed to marry someone like Old Fox-Gifford.

  ‘It’s such a shame he couldn’t be here,’ Fifi says wistfully. I’ve always thought she has a soft spot for Alex’s father. ‘He’s so good at these things.’

  Alex is listening, his expression impassive and I wonder what he’s thinking, if he resents being in his father’s shadow.

  ‘When’s he going to make you a senior partner then?’ Fifi goes on. ‘I’d say you were old enough by now.’

  ‘Ah, but he’d have to pay me more, Fifi, and you know how tight he is,’ Alex says lightly.

  ‘Come along then. We’ll have to make do with you,’ Fifi continues. ‘At least we have a representative from each practice.’

  Three years ago, I had the dubious honour of judging the class for the Best Pet with Old Fox-Gifford. The next time we sent Drew, the locum. Last year, Emma did it, under sufferance.

  ‘We’d better make a start. You should have these.’ Fifi hands out ‘Judge’ badges. George takes a fancy to mine and, for the sake of peace and quiet, I let him have it. It isn’t a pin-on one. It’s supposed to thread through a buttonhole. Fifi purses her lips in disapproval, and disappears into the ticket booth to find another one.

  ‘There you go, Maz. Please don’t let it fall into the wrong hands. The free lunch is exclusively for our show officials. But it’s all right to bring George along, if you need to,’ she adds.