Maybe getting out of the house would be good, and now I had the perfect excuse. “Walkies?” Elvis barked and jumped around me as I organised everything I needed, muttering a canine mantra, “Leash, poo bags, treats…leash, poo bags, treats.”

Finally, we were out of the door and making our way down the path to the gate. I took a firm hold of the leash and led Elvis out to the pavement. We turned right, he sped up, and I careered down Hill Street like a rider chasing a runaway horse. When we reached Mrs Darrow’s cottage, I had to sit on her garden wall to recover.

I looked across the road to Sea Brew and noted all the window seats were occupied. The place must be heaving - perhaps Paul would hire another waitress now. I considered applying for the job, but my natural clumsiness and tendency to drift into daydreams at a moment’s notice might bode ill for customer service.

Elvis waited patiently and then nudged my hand.

“Okay, okay.” I stood and waited for a gap in traffic, and then we launched ourselves across to the promenade and passed the café. We went down the first ramp to the sand, and Elvis leapt for joy. I unclipped his leash, he took off, and I watched him gallop in circles. I laughed out loud. How could I feel bad when there was so much to feel good about? I should be more like a Labradoodle and enjoy life. Maybe I could write a self-help book: Be More Doodle.

Filled with renewed hope, I ran forward, tripped over a piece of driftwood, staggered wildly and then landed face-down in wet, claggy sand. I lifted my head, detecting sand in my mouth and each nostril. Elvis ran up, scattered more of the stuff over me, and then ran away again. “Great.” I rose to my feet, looking like some alien beach monster and trudged towards the sea.

Elvis stopped at the water’s edge, then waded in a few feet. He barked excitedly, fixed on something further out. I came up behind him, the waves rippled to the shore, and he jumped back. “Daft dog, what have you seen?” There was a fawn shape in the water. I heard a faint yelp and saw a black button nose and a blue collar. It was struggling to stay afloat and in danger of being swept away.

“Bertie! Bertie!” A woman’s voice sounded in the distance: a brunette, in jeans and an anorak and holding a dog lead, turning around in a circle to survey the beach, too far away to call. Elvis jumped into the water again, barked and stared at Bertie. Bertie went under.

“Okay, Marnie, no time to waste.” I moved forward, waded in and passed Elvis, not stopping to think. The sea lapped at my knees and then my thighs. My jeans moulded themselves to my body, and the freezing water seeped into my T-shirt. Bertie resurfaced, coughing and spluttering. I pressed on, focussing on the bundle of brown fur as he scrabbled frantically, trying to swim. Then a massive wave crashed in, soaking me to the chest and sweeping Bertie closer. I gasped in shock, then lunged forward and grabbed the dog, hauling him out of the water. I stood, swaying, recovering my breath, and then I held Bertie above the waves, turned and waded slowly back to shore.

“Bertie – oh, my God.” The brunette waited beside Elvis, hands over her mouth. She took hold of her dog and helped me away from the water’s edge. “You saved him. I can’t begin to thank you enough.”

“You-you’re welcome.” My teeth chattered. “Maybe-maybe get him check-checked out.”

“Yes, I will. And you need to get home and out of those wet clothes. Do you live nearby?”

I nodded.

“Here.” She rummaged in a pocket and produced a business card. “If you ever need anything, just call me. I’m so grateful.”

“Thanks.” I fumbled the card into my jacket without looking at it. Then I groped in my other pocket for Elvis’s leash, waved goodbye to Bertie and his mum and stumbled back along the beach. Elvis was subdued, walking calmly beside me. I didn't know if he was upset over the drama or disappointed because his walk had been cut short, but I suspected the latter.

We made our way up the ramp, turned towards Sea Brew, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. Paul stood on the promenade with the entire café clientele behind him. They began applauding and cheering, and my face burned, despite my soaking, freezing clothes.

“You’re a hero,” someone called out.

“It’s heroine,” someone else said in a peevish voice.

“Who cares if she’s on drugs? She saved that dog.”

“No, that’s not –”

“If my dog was drowning and a junkie saved him, it wouldn’t bother me, I can tell you.”

“Well done, you.” Paul smiled as I squelched towards him. “Who’s this, then? I didn’t know you had a dog.”

“Elvis. Got him today.” I smiled gamely, cracking the film of wet sand across my face, and waved at the customers.

“Cool name. Bring him in anytime.” He looked at me. “You’re shaking.”

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

The effort to control my teeth was too much. They began chattering again. “Cold. Freezing. Must go.”

I lurched past, and Paul said, “Take care, Marnie.” His voice was soft and admiring. My cheeks flamed again.

Elvis and I crossed the street as quickly as I could with half of Dexter Bay beach in my shoes, and then it was uphill all the way, physically and metaphorically. Finally, I dived inside the cottage, stripped my clothes off, staggered upstairs, and filled the bathtub. I fetched fresh towels, and Elvis joined me in the bathroom as I sank beneath the warm water and lay with only my sandy face poking out. He rested his chin on the edge of the bath and stared at me.

“It’s been one hell of a day,” I told him.

He seemed to agree.

When my body temperature normalised again, I showered off the remainder of the beach, washed my hair and emerged half an hour later in leggings, boots, and a long jumper. I went downstairs, collected my discarded clothes – mysteriously minus socks – rescued Bertie’s mum’s business card and then dumped everything in the washing machine.

I peered at the card. Her name was Emma Turnbull, and she was a solicitor. I laughed aloud, startling Elvis, and then added her number to my phone. While the washing machine rumbled through its cycle, I studied several online videos, fetched Elvis’s treats and taught him to sit, stay, high-five and speak. Either I was a fantastic trainer, or he was super-intelligent and way ahead of me when picking up instructions and winning snacks. I suspected the latter.

After that, it was dinner for us both, and then I let Elvis out into the back garden and went upstairs with the laundry, including the clothes I’d brought in the previous night. The ironing board lived in the back bedroom, where Jeff had spent his last few hours in the cottage. I dumped the basket on the floor and then thought of my husband leaving, the lottery win, the bimbo mistress, and the seemingly endless stream of lies. “Bastard.”

I stormed downstairs, found a roll of bin liners, then returned and filled four of them with Jeff’s clothing and instantly felt better. Then I remembered I hadn’t emptied his pockets and took everything out again - but all I found was some loose change and a spare button. I refilled the bags and then crossed to the window to check on Elvis, excitement bubbling up as I thought about my new dog.

The excitement faded when I saw him gnawing on the lower branch of a sapling I’d planted the previous spring. I rapped sharply on the pane, and he stopped and looked around, then continued chomping. Finally, the branch snapped off, and he dragged it across the lawn. “Bugger.”

Then he dropped his prize, trotted over to the dividing wall, and jumped onto his hind legs, wagging his tail. I stepped closer to the window and saw Mr Simpkins in his garden. He approached the wall, and Elvis’s tail speeded up. When Mr Simpkins stopped before him, Elvis waved a paw. I drew in my breath.

And then Mr Simpkins reached out, took Elvis’s paw, and shook it. I didn’t realise dogs’ tails could circle like a lawn sprinkler, but if Elvis was a helicopter, he would have taken off right then. My neighbour ruffled the fur on top of Elvis’s head and said something to him. I backed away from the window, feeling like I’d wandered into an episode of The Twilight Zone.

There and then, I decided I would drive into Lufton the following morning and source cashmere socks. If I struck out there, I’d try Poole. I looked at the ironing pile, thought Sod it, shrugged into a hooded jacket and went downstairs. When I opened the back door, Elvis was lying on the lawn gnawing the branch he’d ripped off my tree. He looked up, then rose and dragged his giant chew toy over to me.

“Thanks,” I said through gritted teeth. “Just what I wanted.” I jangled his leash. “Walkies? We’ll visit Auntie Sue and Uncle Colin.” Elvis’s ears twitched.

Five minutes later, we were heading up Hill Street. He trotted, and I speed-walked, and we turned into Elder Lane and were two houses away from our destination when we saw Emma Turnbull and Bertie getting out of a small hatchback in a driveway.

Emma hurried to the gate with Bertie trotting behind. “Hello, fancy meeting you again so soon. I forgot to ask your name. I was so shocked.”

“It’s Marnie, Marnie Hope.” I bent down to pet her dog, but Elvis leapt forward, and Bertie retreated in panic. “How is he?”

“We’re just back from the vet. He swallowed some seawater but no lasting damage. I want to thank you again.”

“There’s no need, I’m just glad I was there, and Elvis saw Bertie first.”

“Well, you’re both heroes.” Emma grinned at me. “And remember, just call if there’s anything I can do for you.”

“I will.” Possibly sooner than she realised. “Well, it was nice to see you both again. Bye for now.”

“Bye. Maybe see you on the beach – just not in the sea!”

We laughed and went our separate ways, and I remembered Sue telling me a family had moved in two doors down, but she hadn’t met them. We arrived at her house, I rang the bell, and nothing happened. After another try and no response, I rang Sue’s mobile and left a message saying I’d called. Then we walked to the end of Elder Lane, passed Steeple Road and St John’s church and carried on down Moor Road to the far end of the promenade.

When we reached it, Elvis dragged me towards the rail. “No,” I told him. “The tide’s in, and we’d end up like poor Bertie.” We ambled along the seafront instead, and I saw a couple up ahead, walking a distance apart from each other, and heard raised voices. Since I didn’t feel like eavesdropping on someone else’s failing relationship, we crossed to the other side of the street where Elvis investigated shop fronts, and I dawdled beside him.

The couple on the promenade were wrapped up in parkas, and I couldn’t see them clearly, but the tall one was presumably a man. As I watched, he stepped towards the woman and enveloped her in a hug. She laughed, and I sighed and shuffled on to the next exciting smell on Elvis’s agenda. At least the couple, whoever they were, were back on an even footing, unlike Jeff and me.

My husband owed me three hundred and seventy-five grand. Anger burned in the pit of my stomach. How would I track Jeff down? He’d had three months’ planning already…maybe he’d bought a new house for himself and Nicola X to live in.

Elvis stopped outside the Dexter Bay Hotel and stuck his nose to their gatepost. I glanced across the road and did a double-take: the couple had reached Sea Brew and were going inside. The man switched a light on, tipped his hood back, and I saw who they were - Paul and Steph, the waitress.

Waitress and partner, judging by the way she was hoovering his face. I looked away quickly as an empty feeling replaced the anger in my gut.

Jesus, Marnie, how deluded can you get? Paul was never interested in you, and he’s got someone years younger.

“C’mon, boy.” I hauled Elvis away from the post, and we turned up Hill Street, and I didn’t look back.