The Ex Factor Read Free

dawn. The first is that there’s invariably some awful schlock-horror movie on television – and the more B-grade the better, in my opinion. This morning I really luck out: my all-time favourite flick, the Stephen King screamer
Christine
, is just starting.
    The second advantage to being up with the sparrows is that, once I’ve had my fill of gore, there’s rarely anyone else at the dog park, so my four-legged friends have the run of the place. Not that they’re not happy to hang out with other dogs – they love it – but other dog owners often aren’t happy to hang out with them. Carl legally has to be leashed and muzzled in public, which doesn’t do much for the Greyhound’s reputation. Dolly is slow and prefers to keep to herself these days. Bananarama sometimes growls and snaps when she’s surprised or frightened – which is pretty much all the time when you can’t see what’s coming at you.
    As for poor Reggie, if there’s a more misunderstood breed than the Pit Bull, I’ve never met it. I’ve seen people leash their dogs, turn tail and run at the sight of him. I’ve had parents scream at me to keep my ‘dangerous dog’ away from their kids when Reggie’s been nowhere near the little darlings. Once, an old man actually hit Reggie with a stick for no reason at all.
    And Frankie wonders why I prefer dogs to people.
    But the main reason I don’t entirely mind being up before the sun is striding towards me now, dark hair still bed-mussed and a big smile on his face.
    ‘Kitty Kat!’ Adam calls as he unleashes his three-legged Australian Shepherd, Ringo, who races over to Reggie and Dolly to begin the intricate butt-sniffing routine. ‘What an unexpected pleasure. What’s got you up before the lark?’
    I can’t help but smile at Adam’s vaguely seventeenth-century turn of phrase. He may be a thirty-four-year-old veterinarian with his own state-of-the-art clinic, but I’ve always suspected he’s a frustrated bard at heart. As well as the occasionally flowery language, he has the strong, Roman nose and bow-shaped lips of a Shakespearean actor. I often expect to see him in a ye olde ruff and breeches instead of the jeans and hoodies that are his uniform when he’s not wearing surgical scrubs.
    ‘This one,’ I nod toward Rama, sniffing contentedly away at the end of her retractable leash. ‘She decided to, how do I put this delicately, leave Frankie a little calling card in the wee hours. Wee being the operative word.’
    ‘Nice work, Rama!’ Adam says in his booming voice. He drops to his knees and gives her a hearty scratch behind the ears. Bananarama laps it up. ‘I dare say you couldn’t have chosen a more deserving candidate.’
    But then his tone becomes serious. ‘How’s Rama’s eyesight these days?’
    ‘You mean did she mistake Frankie’s rug for the back lawn? Er, no. I think she knew exactly what she was doing. Or rather, where she was doing it.’
    ‘Want me to pop over after work tomorrow and give her a check-up, just in case?’
    I give his shoulder a squeeze. ‘That’d be great. Thank you.’
    Adam ramps up the scratching. ‘You’re a clever little thing, aren’t you?’ Rama looks positively rapturous now. ‘But try to give her both barrels next time, eh, old girl?’
    ‘Adam . . .’ I say warningly. He’s never been my sister’s biggest fan.
    He stands and meets my gaze, trying to look abashed. ‘Sorry,’ he says without a hint of remorse. ‘I just don’t know how you put up with her, Kitty. I bet she totally flipped out, right?’
    ‘She . . . was less than impressed.’
    He shakes his head wearily. ‘Remind me again why you upped and left me for her?’
    ‘I hardly
left
you, Adam! All I did was move out of the apartment we shared and into the house my mother left me and my sister. My baby sister, who was only nineteen when she suddenly found herself without parents, may I remind you.’
    I can hear the note of fire in my tone. I know