Page 88 of Safe Hands

“Is he okay?” Lauren whispered.

“He’s deciding.”

“Deciding what?”

“Whether you’re safe.”

Carly watched Lauren think about crouching, then not crouch. Think about reaching for him, then put her hands in her back pockets. She stepped sideways until she was flat against the wall, giving him the whole corridor.

“Take your time, big man,” she said. “Have a look around. Nobody’s going to rush you.”

Berkeley considered this. Then he walked slowly down the hall, nose low, into the kitchen and round it twice. He sniffed the back door. He sniffed a cardboard box in the corner, which Lauren said was the recycling and Carly suspected was where things went that hadn’t been tidied into a real home. He sniffed the bowl by the fridge, a huge stainless-steel thing so new the price sticker was still on the bottom.

“I didn’t know what size,” Lauren said. “So I bought the biggest one.”

“He’ll appreciate that.”

“Will he?”

“No. He’ll drink out of the toilet if you leave the lid up. But it’s the thought that counts.”

Lauren laughed, and Carly’s shoulders came down a notch.

She’d brought his food in a carrier bag: the cheap tins Samantha had switched him onto, which played havoc with his stomach, and the last half-bag of his old kibble, the expensive stuff, from the back of her dad’s cupboard. Lauren peered inside, then looked up.

“Can I ask something without it sounding like I’m criticising your sister?”

“You can ask. I can’t promise it won’t.”

“What did he eat before? With your dad?”

It was a simple question. Carly didn’t know why it caught.

“Proper kibble. The good stuff,” she said. “And every Sunday, Dad cooked up chicken and rice and carrots to go on top. Big batch, portioned into tubs, freezer. He used to say Berkeley ate better than he did in the army.” She shrugged. “He probably did. Dad was a terrible cook for humans. He only made an effort for the dog.”

Lauren nodded slowly. “And now he’s on tins.”

“Samantha doesn’t have time. I don’t have time. It’s not…” Carly stopped, because she’d been about to say it’s not a priority, and it was a lie, and she was tired of the sound of it. “It’s not something anyone’s managed.”

Lauren leaned back against the worktop, considering the bag of tins. “Is she older? Samantha?”

“Older. They both are. I’m the youngest.”

“Snap.” Lauren’s mouth twisted. “Two older sisters. I’m the baby. The afterthought, my dad calls it, which he thinks is affectionate.”

Carly looked up from the tins. “What are they like?”

“Perfect.” Lauren said it lightly, but she was looking at the tins rather than at Carly. “Married. Mortgages. Matching cars. One of them does the church flowers, because her father-in-law is a vicar. Very respectable. And I’m the one Mum still asks at Christmas whether I’ve met anyone nice, in the voice she uses when she’s already decided the answer will be disappointing.”

It was a joke. Mostly. Carly heard the bit underneath that wasn’t funny and recognised it like her own handwriting.

“Samantha did everything right too,” she said. “Wedding, house, two girls, a husband who carves the turkey. She’d be very good at church flowers.”

“See?” Lauren pushed herself off the worktop. “We should start a support group. Youngest Sisters Anonymous.”

“I’m not sure I’d go.”

“You’d go. You’d run it. You’d have a laminated agenda.” Lauren grinned, and the moment passed.