Page 14 of When Lemons Give You Life

Sitting at the kitchen table with my plate, I take a deep breath. The first bite is hot, the sauce tangy and rich. The pasta’s a bit mushy, and I used too much dried basil, but it doesn’t matter. I made this. Me. I was in control.

I don’t feel invisible in this moment. I feel steady, like the world has stopped spinning.

And then Lisa screams again, popping my safe, calm bubble. Maybe Brent was right, and she is a living breathing, eternal punishment for my mistake.

9

Lisa

I lather his slender body with peach shampoo, his skin trembling at my touch. It’s even longer than I thought. My fingertips glide over the sparse layer of thinning hair that covers his whole being. Oh god, my legs are hairier than his! I move my hand slowly upwards over his back and neck until I reach his face. I dry retch as I catch a whiff of his breath—smells like sardines. Would it be overstepping to offer to brush his teeth?

Reuben, the geriatric Italian greyhound, evidently detests baths as much as I detest tidying.

“Wanna swap, sweetheart?” I ask him. “You know I’d happily take a nice long bath while you Marie-Kondo the hell out of my house. Do we have a deal?”

Reuben raises his eyebrows. At least I think he does. Do dogs have eyebrows? I consider googling it, but I can’t leave this pitiful drowned baby a minute longer than necessary.

The poor trembling creature makes a feeble attempt to get out, his claws scraping against the deep steel wash-trough. But even he knows there is no escape: it’s too high and slippery. I finish rinsing him and scoop him up into a big fluffy towel, singing softly to try to calm him. How I wish someone could do that for me.

My next client, Tabitha, is waiting. At least she’s not as gassy as her sister Harriet. I sigh. Time to make this French poodle look respectable.

The rest of the morning is a blur. One poodle, two cavoodles, one labradoodle, one groodle-schnoodle, and a cockapoo. All products of what I like to call the CHLOE: Covid Hellish Lockdown Oodle Epidemic.

Why do so many people want their dogs clean on New Year’s Day? The canines probably have better social lives than I do. Still, it keeps dog groomers like me in high demand, and this is so much better than my admin job at the school where I first met Beau. Sitting at a desk for hours was torturous; the pay here is less, but having inherited Mum’s place means I don’t have a mortgage to worry about.

The house was left to both her children, but Griff gave me his half outright when he moved to Paris. I like to think it was because he felt guilty for leaving. Money was always something he could give easily. If only love were the same.

Apart from Reuben, the only non-oodle is Augustus, an old German shepherd who comes every couple of months.

“Oh my god, Lisa!” Helen, my boss and friend since high school, bursts into the washing room, her hazel eyes wide. “Did Augustus attack you?”

“Huh?”

She points a tattooed finger at my top. This morning, my beetroot smoothie spilled on my new white shirt, which can now pass as a respectable costume of a CSI murder victim.

“No, Augustus would never hurt me. It’s my smoothie. I was in a rush and forgot to change.”

“You’re obsessed with those drinks! Are you still that worried about getting your mum’s kidney disease? Didn’t the risk pass like ten years ago?”

“I know, I know. Just figured it can’t hurt.”

Helen narrows her eyes then bounces back to her sparkly self. “Okay. Don’t worry, I got you, girl.” She flings me a folded maroon T-shirt from her locker.

I hold it up, raising my eyebrows as I read the bold yellow letters printed across the front.

“What?” she asks. “It was a freebie from the pet pharmaceutical company. At least if you spill any more beetroot beverages on it, it won’t show as much.” She serves me a saccharine smile, which I return with a playful poke of my tongue.

“Thanks,” I say, changing into the top. “I’m all over the place today.”

“Don’t apologize, you’ve had so much on your plate. And I really appreciate you coming in on New Year’s Day, we’ve had such a backlog with the newbie sick.”

“All good. It’s not like I had anyone to kiss last night or wake up to this morning.”

“You and me both! Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know your final client has canceled, so you can leave early. You could use the extra time to finally clean your house?”

We burst out laughing, but I head home, determined to at least tidy my kitchen.

I go to get a snack first. On the fridge door, my favorite photo of Beau and me hangs under a love-heart magnet; we’re dressed as Cinderella’s Ugly Stepsisters for a fancy-dress party. I plonk onto the kitchen chair. The grief can still turn my legs to jelly. I have several friends, but Beau, despite our seven-year age gap, was my BFF. He knew I could quote Pretty Woman line for line and that I detested G-strings, and he once held my hand through a sketchy belly button piercing when I was twenty-six, long before he met Griff. We understood everything about each other. Well, almost everything. I’ll never fully understand what he saw in my brother.