‘She really loves her dogs,’ I said, over the sound of the bride’s hysterical wails of ‘CARROTS!’
‘Either that or Ms Sniffingtons stole her favourite carrot.’
‘Carrots, plural,’ I said, pointedly. ‘Nobody has only one favourite carrot.’
He raised both eyebrows in amusement, his face breaking into a grin, and in an instant he transformed from being nice to being, well, as Sofia put it, pretty darn hot. I looked back at the crowd outside in an attempt to distract myself from how smoothly his black T-shirt fitted his torso and upper arms. Maybe if I stopped looking at him long enough, my heart would stop working overtime to pump all that extra blood to my flaming cheeks and I’d be able to stop my eyelids fluttering like some seventeenth-century damsel.
I took a deep breath, got a grip and wrestled back enough of my composure to focus on the real drama.
‘Oh, no. they’ve gone totally the wrong way.’ Despite all the evidence to the contrary, the gaggle of guests had presumed that the bride would know where Carrots had headed, and so instead of sensibly spreading out to cover the numerous potential hiding places where a part-Dobermann, part hound of the Baskervilles might have taken refuge, they’d all simply followed Alia in a jumbled herd towards a clump of trees at the far end of the car park.
‘She ran behind the bins.’ I winced as Alia let out another caustic screech. ‘Maybe we should let her have a few minutes’ peace before blowing her cover.’
‘I’d be inclined to agree with you, if she hadn’t taken the bride’s wedding ring with her.’
‘What?’
‘She was showing her bridesmaids the ring.’ He shrugged. Oh, dear. Even his shrug was lovely.
‘A perfectly natural thing to do.’
‘I guess Carrots wanted a closer look.’ He went out of the door and started walking towards the bins.
‘I’ll go and tell Alia where she’s hiding,’ I called, but he turned round, shaking his head while still walking.
‘Best if it’s one person, rather than the whole crowd.’ He gestured at the swarm of guests milling in the distance, some of them whacking the bushes with sticks.
Deciding that two people might be even better than one, I cautiously followed him to where a tiny stump of furry tail poked out from the side of the far bin. Getting down to a crouch, the photographer held out one hand, averted his eyes and started softly encouraging Carrots to come closer.
Unlike me, who found that gentle smile and warm words nigh-on irresistible, Carrots shuffled a few steps further behind the bin. Communicating with a series of random facial expressions, Hot Photographer managed to convey his new plan, and we swapped places before he slipped around the back of the bins. Once I’d given him enough time to get in place, I started edging closer towards Carrots, who, despite being the size of a small horse, was trembling.
I got to within a couple of metres before she turned and scrabbled away (which was the whole plan, after all – if I’d managed to get within touching distance I’ve no idea what I’d have done). Unfortunately, seeing a strange man with his arms outstretched to block her escape route made her even more frantic. In three swift moves, Carrots lunged from a discarded cardboard box, to a pile of crates, and straight into the open-topped, industrial-sized bin.
‘Here, hold this.’ Before I could blink in surprise, Hot Photographer had chucked me his jacket and vaulted in after her.
The bin was mostly full of packaging, but still, it was abin. It smelt even worse than Carrots. Various giant plastic tubs and pieces of cellophane were still smeared with the remnants of soured sauces and other unidentifiable refuse that made my eyes water. Carrots was crouched in one corner while Photo Guy waded to reach her, cooing reassuringly in between the odd retch. He carefully steered himself close enough to take hold of her diamanté tiara, which was thankfully kept in place by a Velcro strap under her chin, and, using his body to hold her steady against the rusty side of the bin, attempted to prise open her jaws.
When he slipped in the pool of slime sloshing about on the bin floor for the second time, I knew the only thing to do was clamber in and join him. It took every effort on both our parts to keep Carrots still while Photo Guy opened her mouth wide enough to see the white-gold band glistening in the corner of one cheek.
‘Can you reach in and pull it out?’ he asked, breathless from the effort. I glanced at him, heart racing wildly, trying to assess the likelihood of losing a hand.
‘Don’t take too long thinking about it!’
‘Promise you’ll not let go. I’m a baker and I really need both my hands.’
‘Yes, I promise, whatever, just hurry up…’
Screwing my face up in horror, I tentatively started moving my hand towards the gaping cavern of enormous teeth.
And then before I could have a chance to prove how brave and awesome I was, Alia and her champagne-fuelled mob arrived, the tops of several heads poking above the top of the bin. Alia shrieked. Carrots jerked her head back, her colossal tongue filling her mouth as she swallowed, simultaneously rearing back so that both Photo Guy and I toppled into a pool of broken plastic and rancid slime.
‘Carrots!’ Alia cried. ‘My baby! What have they done to you?’
The dog bounded out of the bin and straight into the arms of her demented mother.
The photographer, not looking quite as hot as he had done a few minutes ago, sat up, pulled me up to join him and flicked a clod of something brown and sticky off his other hand. ‘She swallowed it, didn’t she?’
I picked a string of green something off the side of my head, forcing down my gag reflex before replying. ‘Is it wrong to feel some consolation knowing how Alia’s going to get her ring back?’
