Читать книгу Behaving Badly - Isabel Wolff - Страница 8

The next day I was booked to see Lily Jago and her shihtzu, Jennifer Aniston. I read the e-mail again. ‘Not allowed to take her to work any more…she’s clearly having a nervous breakdown…wreaking havoc at home…can’t cope…Help!!!!’ It sounded like a pretty straightforward case of separation anxiety. The appointment was at half past four. So I pushed away the negativity which had paralysed me for the previous twenty-four hours and forced myself to work. I spent the morning writing a flyer to send to local vets. I also called the Camden New Journal to see whether they might be interested in doing a short piece about me—anything to get the clients rolling in. I wrote my follow-up report to send to the Greens about their Irish setter, then Clare, the producer of Animal Crackers, rang. She wanted to arrange the next filming schedule and told me that the new series had just got a good advance preview in TV Life!. I went down to the shop and bought it, and there was a photo of the presenter, Kate Laurie, with a Shetland pony, and, inset, a small one of me.

We love our pets, but do we drive them crazy? it asked. That’s what Kate Laurie will be finding out in the new series of Animal Crackers with help from our resident ‘pet psychiatrist’, Miranda Sweet. It had a five star rating and was described as ‘compulsive viewing’. I felt pleased and relieved. I idly flicked through the rest of the magazine and suddenly saw Alexander’s face. It loomed out of the ‘Hot New Talent’ slot on page eight. I caught my breath. He looked heartbreakingly handsome in his eighteenth-century naval uniform. Alexander Darke in the new swashbuckling drama, Land Ahoy!, announced the caption. A shard of glass pierced my heart.

Alexander Darke possesses a beguiling blend of old-fashioned charm and courtesy, the piece began. Unused to being interviewed, he responds to questions with polite enquiries of his own. But he will have to get used to the media spotlight, for, after twelve years of ‘treading water more than boards’, as he modestly puts it, Land Ahoy! is set to make him a star. It was obvious that the journalist had fancied him. She rhapsodized about his Byronic looks…like a young Richard Chamberlain, and his athletic physique. I felt another sharp pang. This gorgeous Darke horse seems inspired casting as the brave yet unemotional seafaring man, she gushed. Well, the ‘Darke horse’ part of it was certainly true. Land Ahoy!’s female lead is the luscious Tilly Bishop, 25, who recently starred in the hit romantic comedy, Reality Cheque. I felt sick.

By now it had gone three, so I settled Herman, and walked over the railway bridge to the tube. I got the train to Embankment, then another to Sloane Square, then strolled down the King’s Road. Daisy had warned me what to expect about Lily Jago. ‘She’s a chronic drama queen,’ she’d said. I knew that Lily was a fanatical animal lover because she’d recently got into trouble for refusing to employ a Korean girl on the basis that she came from a country where they eat dogs. Lily had been taken to a tribunal, the publishers of Moi! had been fined, and it had been splashed all over the press. She’d only kept her job because she’d lifted the magazine’s circulation by fifty-six per cent in the previous year.

‘Thank God you’re here!’ she breathed as she opened the front door of her flat in Glebe Place. There were feathers in her hair. ‘It’s been absolute hell!’ I went inside, and saw that the avian trail led all the way down the hall to the sitting room. ‘Just look what the little monster has done!’

The shih-tzu sat on the sofa, amidst the wreckage of two eviscerated cushions, indignation and distress in her bulgy brown eyes.

‘I came back ten minutes ago to find this, this…devastation!’ Lily wailed. This wasn’t really devastation. I’ve seen houses where the dog has shredded the wallpaper. ‘The little vandal! I just don’t know what to do!’ I got Lily to calm down, then asked her when the problems had started.

‘A month ago,’ she replied. ‘You see, Moi! was taken over,’ she explained, as she lit a cheroot with a trembling hand. ‘And the new proprietor won’t allow animals at work. Not so much as a goldfish!’ she added irritably. She tossed back her head and a twin plume of blue smoke streamed from her elegant nose. ‘So I now have no option but to leave Jennifer at home. But the point is she’s not used to it, because for the past two years she’s always come in with me. For a while she was even editing her own section.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. She had a dogs’ beauty problem page. Anyway, she’s obviously missing office life, so I suppose that’s why she’s being beastly.’

‘I don’t think that’s it at all.’

‘I think she’s doing it to get back at me,’ said Lily, her eyes narrowing as she drew on the cheroot again. ‘For leaving her on her own.’

I sighed. This, sadly, is a common misconception. ‘Miss Jago,’ I began wearily.

She waved an elegant hand at me. ‘Call me Lily.’

‘Lily,’ I tried again. ‘Let me reassure you that dogs are quite incapable of forming the abstract concept of “revenge”. This is a classic case of separation anxiety. It’s not that she’s “missing the office”, or “trying to get her own back”. It’s simply that being alone gives her terrible stress.’

‘Well, she does have a walker who comes to take her out at lunchtimes, not least so that she can, you know—’ Lily lowered her voice ‘—wash her hands.’

‘Hmm. I see. But, apart from that, she’s on her own for what, three or four hours at a stretch?’ Lily nodded guiltily. ‘Well, that’s quite a long time.’

‘I’ve no choice!’ I stood up. Lily looked alarmed. ‘Christ, you’re not going are you?’

‘No. I’m not. I’d like you to show me your leaving routine. I’d like you to pretend that it’s the morning, and you’re about to go off to work.’

‘You mean, act it out?’

‘Yes. The whole works. Putting on your coat, getting your bag, saying goodbye to Jennifer, and locking the door. Please make it as realistic as you can and pretend that I’m not here.’

She looked at me sceptically. ‘Ok-ay.’

I followed Lily to the gleaming steel and black granite kitchen where she filled Jennifer’s bowl—it looked like porcelain—with Dogobix. Then, Jennifer following her, grunting, down the long, cream-carpeted hallway, Lily picked up her jacket and bag. Jennifer’s body suddenly stiffened with apprehension.

‘Ok-ay dar-ling,’ Lily sang. ‘It’s time for Mummy to go to work now.’ Jennifer began to whine. ‘No, sweetie, don’t cry, Mummy’s got to go to work so that she can buy you all sorts of lovely things. Like that Gucci collar you want—remember? And that Theo Fennell silver bowl? So I’m just…going out…’ Jennifer was racing crazily round Lily’s feet, whimpering and hyperventilating, ‘…for a lit-tle while.’ By now Jennifer was screaming like a banshee as Lily and I backed out through the front door. She turned the key, then bent down and opened the letter-box. ‘Bye-bye, my sweet little darling,’ she called through it, ‘bye-bye, my love,’ then she straightened up. She looked at me, and her face suddenly crumpled like an empty crisp packet. ‘Oh God—I just can’t bear it!’ She unlocked the door again, scooped Jennifer up in her arms, and kissed her flattened little face several times. ‘Be a good girl, Jennifer. Be a good little girl for Mummy, okay?’ Then she put Jennifer down, and left. From inside we could hear outraged howling.

‘And this is what you do every morning?’ I said to her.

‘Yes.’

‘Now show me how you come home.’

‘Okay.’ Lily unlocked the front door, and rushed in, her arms wide open.

‘Darling, here I amagain—Mummy’s ba-ck!’ Jennifer, though by now clearly confused, responded with an ecstatic grunt. ‘Did you miss me, darling?’ Lily crooned as she picked her up and cuddled her. ‘Did you? Well I really missed you too. I love my lickle baby Jennifer, and I don’t like leaving her, do I, my darling? No, no, no—I don’t!’

She put the dog down.

‘That’s how I do it.’

‘Hmm.’

We went back into the sitting room and I explained what she was doing wrong—that she was making such a huge thing of leaving and returning that she was working Jennifer up into a frenzy. ‘You’ve got to be cooler about it all,’ I advised her. ‘Be quite off-hand. In the mornings, don’t go in for these long, drawn-out departures—you make it all so much more traumatic than it has to be, and that gets her in a terrible state.’ I advised her to vary her leaving routine, and to leave her on her own at other times, unexpectedly. ‘Just pop out without telling her,’ I said.

‘Without telling her?’ repeated Lily incredulously.

‘Yes. Then come back, as casual as you like. That way she’ll get used to you coming and going and she won’t panic, which means she won’t be destructive. And when you come home in the evenings, be warm to her, of course, but not too delirious—after all, you’ve only been to work, not round the world. You’re making far too much of it all, so you’re giving her massive psychological stress.’

‘Oh,’ said Lily slowly. ‘Right.’ I glanced at the mantelpiece, which was white with invitations.

‘Do you leave her on her own in the evenings—when you go to parties, for example?’

‘No, she always comes along.’

‘I see.’ She got down an invitation and handed it to me. It was for a reception at the French Embassy. In the top left-hand corner, it read, ‘Miss Lily Jago and Miss Jennifer Aniston.’

‘Jennifer’s extremely popular,’ said Lily proudly. ‘We go everywhere together. They even let her in at The Ivy, which is more than can be said for Geri Halliwell’s shih-tzu.’

‘So she’s never really been left alone at all before now, day or night?’

‘No. Never,’ Lily replied.

‘In that case,’ I said, ‘I have another suggestion. You could, if you were to follow my advice, gradually get Jennifer more used to being on her own, but given the over-attachment problem that she has—that you both have actually—I think it would take a long time. So a better solution, in my view, would be to get a puppy, to keep her company.’

Lily stared at me as though I were mad. ‘A puppy?’ she echoed. ‘You mean, another dog?’ I nodded. ‘Another Jennifer?’ I nodded again. She suddenly beamed. ‘What a brilliant idea! Would you like that, darling?’ she said, lifting the dog onto her lap. She adjusted the diamanté barrette in Jennifer’s floor-length blonde hair. ‘Would you like a sweet little puppy to play with?’ Jennifer grunted. ‘A little fwendy-wendy? You would? She says yes!’ she informed me happily. ‘Well, Mummy’s going to find you one. That’s a superb idea,’ she said. ‘Quite brilliant. I’d never have thought of that. You’re a genius, Miranda. In fact, you’re such a genius I’m going to do a feature on you in Moi!’

‘Oh!’

‘I am,’ she said. ‘I’m going to send my best feature writer, India Carr, to interview you—have I got your card?—yes, here it is—and I’ll hire a top photographer to take some really nice pics. What shall I call it? “Barking Mad”—no—“Miss Behaviour”! Yes!! “Miss Behaviour”! How about that?’

I knew that Lily wouldn’t really do an interview with me—she was just being effusive—but when I got back I found that the Camden New Journal had phoned to say that yes, they would like to run a piece. I was pleased—some local publicity would be good.

‘How long will the article be?’ I asked the reporter, Tim, the following morning, as he got his notebook out of his bag. He looked about eighteen but was probably twenty-five.

‘About a thousand words—that’s nearly a page—I write them up in quite a light-hearted way. The peg is the opening of your practice—“Pet Shrink Comes to Primrose Hill”—and I’ll plug Animal Crackers as well.’

‘Would you also mention my puppy parties?’

He laughed. ‘Sure—but what are they? I don’t have a dog.’

‘They’re a kind of canine kindergarten,’ I explained. ‘They’re very important for socializing young dogs so that they don’t have behavioural problems in later life.’

‘Cool,’ he said, as he took the top off his pen. ‘Puppy…parties,’ he muttered as he scribbled in his pad. ‘Are they by invitation only?’ he asked with a straight face.

‘Sort of. I mean, their mums and dads have to book.’

‘So it’s RSVP then. And is it Bring a Bottle?’

‘No,’ I said with a smile.

‘Dress code?’

‘Casual. But collars will be worn.’

‘Time and venue?’

‘Seven p.m., every Wednesday, here. Fifteen pounds p.p.’

‘That’s per puppy?’

‘Correct. Carriages at nine. They start next week and I’ve still got a few empty spaces.’

His pen flew across the page in a longhand/shorthand hybrid. ‘Few…empty…spaces. That’s great.’ Then he asked me for some personal background. So I told him, briefly, about growing up in Brighton, then mentioned my five years at Bristol and explained why I’d given up being a vet.

‘But it wasn’t simply the stress,’ I went on. ‘Being a vet means that you’re usually mending just one bit of the animal—you’re prescribing, or doing surgery, or setting bones. But as a behaviourist you’re working with the whole animal, which I find more interesting, because it means trying to fathom their minds.’

‘And are you Jungian or Freudian?’ he asked with a smirk.

I laughed. ‘Neither.’

‘Seriously though,’ he said, ‘do animals really need psychiatrists? Isn’t it just a bit of a fad for indulgent pet-owners? Like having aromatherapy for your Persian cat, for example, or having your dog’s kennel feng-shuied?’

‘Animal behaviourism is a new area, that’s true,’ I replied. ‘But it isn’t a passing fashion—it’s here to stay; because we now know that developing greater insight into animal psychology means having well-balanced pets. They don’t “misbehave” or behave “inappropriately”, because they’re happy—and they’re happy because they’re understood.’ I then told him the story of how I’d got Herman. ‘Did you know that in the West the biggest cause of death in young dogs isn’t accidents or illness,’ I went on; ‘it’s euthanasia due to behavioural problems. I find that incredibly sad. Because the fact is that so many of these behavioural problems would be completely preventable if only people knew what made their pets tick.’

‘What are the most common problems you see?’

‘Aggression, separation distress, fears and phobias, obsessive behaviour, attention-seeking…’

‘And what about the animals?’

I laughed. ‘Actually you’re not that far off, because all too often it isn’t the animal’s behaviour which has to change, it’s the human’s, though people don’t usually like hearing that.’

‘And have you always been “animal crackers”?’ he smiled.

I shrugged. ‘Well, yes…I suppose I have.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Well, I don’t really know. I mean, lots of people adore animals, don’t they, and find them interesting, so I guess I’m simply one of them.’ Tim’s mobile phone suddenly rang, and as he stepped outside to take the call I realized that what I’d said wasn’t the whole truth. I think the real reason why I became so interested in animals was because it used to distract me from my parents’ rows. They argued a lot, so I gradually built up my own little menagerie to take my mind off the stress. I had a stray tortoiseshell called Misty, two rabbits, Ping and Pong, and Pandora, a guinea pig. I had a hamster and then two gerbils which kept having babies which, to my horror, they would sometimes eat. I also had about thirty stick insects, which I used to feed the neighbours’ privet to, and a number of baby birds which I’d nudged back to life. I once worked out that, including the humans, there were 207 legs in our house.

Mum and Dad thought I was obsessed, but they let me get on with it. Sometimes they’d try to recruit me to their cause. ‘Your mum…’ my father would mutter sadly, shaking his head. ‘Your father…’ my mum would fume. But I didn’t want to know. At night I’d lie in my bed, stiff as a plank, eyes wide open, listening to them griping downstairs. It was always about one subject—golf—a sport which Dad loved with a burning passion and which Mum loathed—she still does. Dad had taken it up not long after they’d married and, within three years, had become exceptionally good. He was even encouraged to turn professional, but Mum didn’t want to know. She said he should stick with accountancy—but he wasn’t having it. Eventually, they split up. Then, within a year of their divorce, she met and married Hugh, a landscape architect, and, pretty quickly, had three more kids.

I think that’s why I became ‘tricky’—because I had a lot of instability then. I didn’t smoke or take drugs, like some kids I knew; I didn’t pierce my eyebrows or dye my hair. Instead, I became fixated on animal issues. I went vegetarian, almost vegan—it drove Mum mad—and I joined every welfare organization there was. I played truant to go on live-export protests, and I went on anti-hunt demos too. That’s how I met Jimmy. I was standing by a fence one freezing December Saturday with a few other protesters as the hunt went by. I didn’t like to throw anything, as that’s not nice, and you might hurt a horse; so I just stood there, holding up a poster saying ‘Ban Hunting Now!!’ when this handsome man suddenly turned up. He looked like the Angel Gabriel with his thick, curly blond hair and pale beard. And he began chanting, very quietly, ‘It’s a bloody liberty, not a civil liberty! It’s a bloody liberty, not a civil liberty!’ And his voice got a little louder, and then he motioned to us all to join in. And so we did.

‘It’s a bloody liberty! Not a civil liberty! It’s a bloody liberty! Not a civil liberty!’ And now he was waving his arms at us, as though he was conducting Beethoven’s Ninth.

‘IT’S A BLOODY LIBERTY! NOT A CIVIL LIBERTY!! IT’S A BLOODY LIBERTY! NOT A CIVIL LIBERTY!!!’

I was sixteen then, and Jimmy was twenty-one. It had taken five minutes for me to fall under his spell…

Tim reappeared, and snapped his phone shut.

‘I’m sorry about that. It was my editor. Where were we? Oh yes…’ he stared at his notes. ‘And are you single or married?’ he asked.

‘I’m…single.’ I prayed that he wouldn’t mention Alexander, but there was no reason for him to know.

‘And how old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘I don’t mind at all. I’m thirty-two.’

‘And finally, a funny question, which I always ask everyone. What’s your deepest, darkest secret?’

‘My deepest, darkest secret?’

‘Yes. Don’t look so shocked. It’s not serious.’

‘Oh.’ He’d thrown me right off balance for a moment. ‘Well…’ He’d be horrified if I told him the truth. ‘I’ve…got a bit of a soft spot for Barry Manilow,’ I managed to say.

‘Barry…Manilow,’ he muttered. ‘That’s great.’ Then he said he thought he’d got enough material, and if he could just take a quick photo, he’d be off.

‘When’s the piece going in?’ I asked, as he opened his rucksack and pulled out a small camera.

‘Tomorrow.’

‘That’s quick.’

‘We had an extra page to fill at the last minute as some advertising was pulled, so I’ve got to turn this around by two. All our photographers are busy today, so I’m going to take a quick digital snap. If you could just stand by the door, holding the dog, with the plaque just behind you.’ We stepped outside. I picked Herman up and smiled at Tim, squinting slightly.

Suddenly he lowered the camera. ‘I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but you’ve got a bit of a bruise below your left eye—’

‘Have I?’ I felt myself stiffen. ‘Oh yes.’

‘Sorry to mention it, but I just thought you might not want it to show in the picture.’

‘Erm, no. No, I don’t. My make-up must have come off in the heat,’ I added. I went inside and looked in my small hand-mirror. He was right. It was a liverish yellow with a pale mauve outline, as if a black felt-tip had bled on my face. That was careless of me—I must have absent-mindedly rubbed off my concealer. I dabbed on some more Cover-Stick, then pressed on some powder.

‘Yes,’ he said appraisingly. ‘That’s fine. Did you have an accident?’ he asked.

My heart did a swallow dive. ‘No…it was…just one of those…things. I…walked into a lamp post…in the dark. They never look where they’re going, do they?’

He laughed. ‘Okay, then, hold it. Say cheese! Well, that was my last interview for the Camden New Journal,’ he announced as he put his camera away. ‘I’m going on to pastures new.’

‘Really? Where are you off to?’

‘The Independent on Sunday.’

‘That’s good. Which bit?’

‘The diary. It’s a start. But what I really want to get into is political reporting.’

‘Well, congratulations—I hope it goes well.’

‘Anyway, it was nice to meet you. Here.’ He handed me a card. ‘You never know, our paths might cross again. Keep in touch—especially if you happen to hear any interesting gossip.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I will.’

Within two hours of the interview appearing in the paper I had every reason to be grateful to Tim. Not only was it accurate and witty, but I’d already had six enquiries about the puppy parties and three new bookings—a chinchilla, a parakeet, and Joy the osteopath’s Bengal cat—which kept me busy for the rest of the week. I phoned Daisy a couple of times but she was busy with clients. But on Friday night she called back.

‘Sorry I haven’t rung you before, but I’ve been frantic. So tell me how it’s all going?’

‘Well, I’m actually quite busy—it’s picking up.’ I told her about the article in the Camden New Journal.

‘That sounds good. And what did you think of Lily Jago?’

I giggled at the memory. ‘As you said, a complete drama queen.’

‘And what about Caroline Mulholland? Did she ring you?’

‘Yes, she did. I went out to the house. She was nice.’

‘She’s as rich as Croesus, apparently—and married to this rather handsome MP.’

‘Ye-es,’ I said, ‘that’s right. I met him…briefly. In fact I’m going back there tomorrow—to judge their dog show.’

‘Really? How did that come about?’

I explained.

‘Oh you’ll do it much better than Trinny and Susannah,’ she snorted. ‘Can you imagine how rude they’d be! “What does that Border collie think it’s got on?” she said, imitating Trinny. “Makes it look like a scrubber! And that Old English sheepdog looks naff in those pink leggings, doesn’t it Susannah?” “Oh yes Trinny, a complete dog’s dinner, and that springer’s arse is far too big for that skirt.” You’ll be much more tactful,’ Daisy giggled.

‘I’ll try. But I’ve never done anything like this before.’

‘You’ll probably pick up some new clients,’ she said. ‘It’s worth going just for that.’

‘That’s the main reason why I’m doing it,’ I lied. ‘Plus the fact that it’s in a good cause. So what treats are in store for you this weekend?’

‘Well, I’ve got a blissful day tomorrow. In the morning I’m going Tyrolean traversing.’

‘You’re going where?’

‘Tyrolean traversing. It’s a method mountain climbers use for crossing crevasses, but a small group of us are just going to do it above an old stone quarry in Kent.’

‘From what height?’

‘Oh, only about a hundred feet or so.’

‘You’re mad.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You are—you’re crazy, Daisy. I’ve often said it.’

‘But apparently it’s really good fun. Basically, you suspend cables across the gap, with a sort of pulley thing, then you take a running jump off the edge—’

‘You do what?’

‘But then your harness takes the strain and instead of plummeting to the ground you find yourself bouncing along the wire like a puppet on a string. It’ll be fabulous.’

‘Just thinking about it makes me feel sick.’

‘And it’s supposed to be much more fun than abseiling because it gives you that lovely feeling of falling into empty space.’

‘Uhhhh.’

‘Then on Saturday night, Nigel’s taking me out, but—’ there was a theatrical pause, ‘—he won’t tell me where. He says it’s going to be a “very special evening”. Very special,’ she added happily. ‘That’s what he said.’

‘Hmmm,’ I said. ‘Do you think it might…mean something?’

‘Well, yes, I really think that it might. Anyway, enjoy your fete,’ she said cheerfully.

‘I shall do my best,’ I replied.

The next morning I awoke feeling awful, having slept very badly. I’d had this really weird dream. In it, I was in a theatre somewhere—I don’t know which one, but it seemed to be quite big—and the curtain had just gone up. And I seemed to be playing Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz for some reason, with Herman as Toto, and Daisy as the good witch Glinda, and my mother as Auntie Em. And Alexander was in it too. He was the Lion.

‘My goodness, what a fuss you’re making. Why you’re nothing but a great big coward!’

‘You’re right. I am a coward. I haven’t any courage at all. I even scare myself.’

And then Nigel appeared as the Tin Man.

‘Don’t you think that the Wizard could help him too?’

‘I don’t see why not. Why don’t you come with us? We’re on our way to see the Wizard of Oz to get him a heart, and him a brain, and I’m sure he could give you some courage.’

So we did go to see the Wizard, who, to my amazement, was played by my dad. And then I suddenly realized that it wasn’t Alexander playing the Lion any more, it was Jimmy, which confused me. And I was wondering, in the dream, where Alexander had gone, and whether he minded being replaced by Jimmy, because the Lion’s a really good part; and I was hoping that the audience wouldn’t notice, and I was beginning to feel quite stressed about it all—and that’s when I woke up. With my head full of Jimmy. The thought of speaking to him at the fete made me feel sick. To distract myself I spent the morning answering e-mails—I’m constantly amazed at the things people ask.

‘I’m wondering if my cat is obsessive-compulsive as it constantly washes itself,’ said the first. No it’s not—that’s what cats do. ‘How can I get my tarantula to be more friendly? ‘ asked another. I’m afraid that’s just tarantula behaviour—you can’t. ‘My African Grey parrot keeps telling me to “Fuck off!” Do you think it really means it? ‘ No.

Sometimes people like to tell me the ‘funny’ thing their animals do. ‘My donkey brays backwards—it goes Haw-Hee.’ ‘My horse can count up to ten.’ ‘My Persian cat plays the piano—it runs up and down the keyboard.’ ‘My mynah bird can sing “Heartbreak Hotel”.’ Suddenly another e-mail arrived—from my dad. It contained the usual stuff about the weather in Palm Springs (great), the celebrities he’d seen playing golf (lots), and the Hollywood gossip he’d overheard (scandalous). He said he hoped that my new practice had got off to a good start. Then I got to the final sentence and gasped. ‘I also want to tell you that a few days ago I made a decision which will no doubt come as quite a surprise to you—to return to the UK. I’ve been offered a very challenging job in East Sussex—’ East Sussex!! ‘—running a brand new golf club which, as luck, or Fate, would have it, is located very near Alfriston.’ Alfriston? Mum would go mad. ‘So I’d be grateful if you could break this tragic news to your mother as gently as possible, Miranda.’

I e-mailed him back. ‘I’ll try!’

At half past one I put Herman on the lead, my head still reeling from the news about my father, then we left for Little Gateley. The journey was easier this time as I knew the way, and I arrived just after two, my stomach in knots. The gates were festooned with bunches of balloons, like aerial bouquets, and there was a poster saying Summer Fete! There was no sign of Jimmy’s Jaguar—I guessed that he wanted to avoid seeing me. As I parked under a tree I could see frantic activity in the garden, where a number of trestle tables were being set up. Herman and I strolled across the lawn in the sunshine towards the book stalls, home-made-cake stalls and bric-a-brac stalls. There were stalls selling local crafts and toys, a striped marquee marked ‘Refreshments’, and nearby a brass band was tuning up. There was face-painting, skittles and a tombola, and someone was setting up a slow bicycle race. Strung between the trees were necklaces of bunting—it all looked very festive and gay. Suddenly I saw Caroline coming out of the house followed by Trigger and the two Westies.

‘Hi, Miranda, great to see you,’ she smiled. ‘What a sweet dachshund,’ she added admiringly. ‘No, Trigger! Don’t do that to him you rude boy!’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m going to have the brute firmly on the lead today.’

‘Any improvement yet?’ I asked her, as Trigger leaped about by the flowerbeds, snapping at bees.

‘Well, we’re working on it. But I don’t want to tempt fate. Tempt fete!’ she giggled. ‘I hope people will be tempted. James is going to be late,’ she added. ‘He’s driving down from Billington after his weekly surgery—he’s a politician.’

‘Is he?’ I said.

‘He should be here in about twenty minutes—I do hope he turns up on time. Anyway, that’s where the dog show will be,’ she indicated a makeshift arena near the tennis court. ‘That part will start just after three. Go and get some tea,’ she suggested amiably, ‘while I man the gates. At least the weather’s held,’ she said as she looked at the sky. ‘It’s bliss, isn’t it?’ she added happily, as she walked away.

‘Mm,’ I said. ‘It is.’

By now people were arriving, many trailing children and dogs. The brass band was playing ‘Daisy, Daisy…’ and I was just looking at the paperbacks on the book stall when I suddenly heard Jimmy’s voice.

‘Welcome to the Little Gateley Fete, everyone!’ I turned, and saw him standing on a hay bale, in chinos and a blue polo shirt, clutching a megaphone. ‘My wife Caroline and I hope that you’ll all have a really wonderful time. It’s all in a very good cause—the People’s Dispensary for Sick Animals. So do please spend as much as you can!’ The crowd looked dutifully appreciative and attentive. What a benign figure he cut, I thought. I’d seen him with a megaphone before, of course. He’d looked rather different then as he shouted ‘Shame!’ at a startled-looking girl on a black pony, the planes of his face twisted with rage. And now, here he was, circulating in friendly fashion, meeting and greeting, patting children and pressing the flesh. He took part in the slow bicycle race and sportingly submitted to having wet sponges thrown at him in the Aunt Sally.

‘Come on, folks!’ he shouted. ‘How often do you get the chance to do this to a politician?!’ He was in his element—the good-egg country squire, entertaining the locals. And he never once looked over at me. I knew what he was doing, of course. He was letting me know that whatever had happened between us in the past, my presence didn’t affect him. I decided not to seek him out yet—I would wait. As the band played the opening chords of ‘Scarborough Fair’ I heard the church clock chime a quarter past three.

‘And now,’ Caroline announced with the megaphone, ‘we’re going to start the highlight of the afternoon—the dog show—in the small arena there at the end of the lawn. I’d like to tell you that we’re very lucky in having Miranda Sweet, the animal behaviourist from Animal Crackers, adjudicating for us today. So, for anyone who’d like to watch it, the “Waggiest Tail” category will be starting in five minutes.’

‘Thanks for the nice intro,’ I said, as we walked towards the ring with Herman.

‘No,’ she said, ‘thank you. Now, we’ll both have cordless mikes so that everyone can hear us.’

There were about ten dogs taking part in this category, their owners all holding up numbered cards. The audience sat on folding chairs or perched on hay bales as the competing dogs were walked round. In the background we could hear the band playing ‘Mad Dogs and Englishmen’. Caroline tapped on both mikes, and then spoke.

‘Now, it’s the quality of the wag that matters, isn’t it, Miranda?’ she said with mock-seriousness, as a butterfly fluttered past her.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It is. That English setter has a lovely sweeping wag, for example—you could polish the floor with it. The retriever’s got a nice strong wag too.’

‘It has—I can feel the breeze from here!’

‘Interestingly, we have two dogs that don’t actually have tails—the boxer and the corgi—both waggling their behinds there; but it would be unfair to discriminate against the docked breeds.’

‘It would. The St Bernard has quite a slow, deliberate wag, doesn’t he?’ Caroline added. ‘I must say that the pug doesn’t look as though he’s doing much wagging at all.’

‘Well, their tails don’t actually wag very well, because of the way they curl over their backs. But he certainly looks as though he’s trying his best.’

‘He does. There’s some very enthusiastic wagging there from the Norfolk terrier and a slightly twitchy wag there from the collie cross. Maybe he’s a little nervous,’ she suggested with a smile. I saw the owner laugh.

‘Okay, everyone,’ I announced. ‘Please would you walk round the ring just once more?’

‘Have you made your decision?’ Caroline asked a minute later.

I scribbled in my notebook, then held up my mike. ‘I have. In reverse order, the winners of this category are: in third place—number five, the boxer; in second place—the English setter, who’s number six. And in first place is number nine, the Norfolk terrier, whose tail really does wag the dog.’

Everyone clapped as I handed the owners their respective rosettes. And now, from out of the corner of my eye, I could see Jimmy, his arms folded, just standing there, watching.

‘Now for the next category,’ Caroline announced. ‘This is always a popular one—the dog most like its owner. So would all the contestants for this class please enter the ring.’

Some of them resembled their canine partners to an astonishing degree. There was a jowly looking man with a bloodhound, a tall, aristocratic-looking woman with a borzoi, and a poodle accompanied by a white-haired woman with a very tight curly perm. Others had resorted to artifice—like the young boy who’d had his face painted white with a black patch over one eye to make him look like his Jack Russell, and the little girl and her yorkie with matching coiffures. Some had clearly entered with a fine sense of irony. There was a bald man with an Afghan, an overweight woman with a whippet, a thin little man with a massive bulldog, and a woman my size with a Great Dane. As they paraded round the arena I found myself thinking that if the competition were about finding a similarity between the human and canine temperaments then Jimmy and Trigger would win hands down. By now, Jimmy was standing on the opposite side of the ring. I could sense that he was looking at me. Suddenly I caught his eye, and he looked away and immediately began chatting to the man on his left. He was determined to ignore me. I wouldn’t let him. I announced the winners—the first prize went to the aristocratic-looking woman with the borzoi—then it was the Fancy Dress.

‘This is always a very popular category,’ said Caroline, ‘so we have a big field. Would all the competitors please walk their dogs round.’ There was a bichon frise dressed as a French onion-seller and the boxer I’d just seen, now in stars and stripes boxer shorts. There was a Rottweiler dressed as an angel, complete with gold halo, and a puli in a Rastafarian hat. There were two Pekes in tutus, a corgi in a headscarf, and a Sheltie in a pink feather boa, which was making it sneeze. There was a wolfhound dressed as Little Red Riding Hood and a Newfoundland wearing fairy wings. Finally, there was a dachshund dressed as a shiny Christmas cracker, its nose just visible through the crimped end. I looked over to where Jimmy had been standing, but he’d gone.

‘Are you ready to announce the winners?’ Caroline asked me.

‘I am. In joint third place are—number seventeen, the regal looking corgi, and the Christmas cracker dachshund, number twelve. In second place is—number eight, the very Gallic-looking bichon frise. But the first prize for the Fancy Dress category goes to—the Angel Rottweiler!’ Everyone applauded. This seemed to be a popular choice.

‘And finally,’ said Caroline, ‘we come to “Pup Idol”, the canine karaoke competition, the result of which will be decided by you all, in a popular vote. So thanks to Miranda Sweet for being such a great judge.’ My duties done, I stepped down. This was my chance to find Jimmy, while the dog show was still going on. ‘Now, we’ve got a selection of songs here,’ Caroline went on, ‘so may we please have the first of our three talented contestants—Desmond the Dalmatian?’ Desmond and his owner stepped up onto the podium and Caroline passed them the mike. Then she pressed the button on the sound system. A familiar song started up.

‘Ebony and ivory…’

The dog threw back its head.

‘Woooow-ow-owwww-oooo…’

‘Live together in perfect harmony…’

‘Ooooo-woowwww-ow-ow-ow…’

‘Side by side on my piano keyboard…oh Lord…’

‘Ow-ow-oooooowwww…’

’Why don’t we-ee?’

‘Oowwoowwwwwwwwwwww…’

‘—That’s rather good,’ I heard someone say as I moved through the crowd.

‘—Yes, very nice tone.’

‘—Bit of an obvious choice though.’

‘—But the diction’s clear.’

‘—Hmm—you can almost make out the words.’

The song went on for another minute or so, then Caroline faded down the music. Desmond stepped down to a burst of applause and the Christmas cracker dachshund stepped up.

‘Now,’ said Caroline, as I stood by the rope and scanned the crowd, ‘we have Pretzel, who, you may remember, won the event last year. And this year Pretzel has chosen a very challenging classical number, the Queen of the Night’s solo from The Magic Flute!’

‘—That is a brave choice,’ I heard someone say. ‘Notoriously difficult.’

‘—Hmm,’ acknowledged his friend. ‘Let’s hope she’s got the range for it.’

‘—And the breathing of course!’

‘—Gosh, yes.’

The orchestra swelled to a crescendo, and the dog started to vocalize.

‘Yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yaaap!

‘Yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yaaap!

‘Yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap…’

‘—Not bad,’ said the connoisseur appreciatively.

‘—She’s hitting those top notes pretty well.’

‘—She’s not really a coloratura though, let’s face it.’

‘—Oooh, I wouldn’t say that.’

‘Yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yaaap!’

‘—Sounds a bit like Maria Callas, if you ask me.’

‘—More like Lesley Garrett.’

‘Yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yaaap!’

Pretzel’s performance was enthusiastically received, then the last contestant, a sheepdog, began to croon along to the strains of ‘Danny Boy’.

‘Ow wow wow wooooow…’

‘—God, isn’t that beautiful?’

‘Ow wow wow wow wow wow wow wooooooowww…’

‘—Brings tears to your eyes doesn’t it?’

‘Ow wow wow wooooow, wow wow wow wow wow woooooowwwwwwww…’

‘—Got a tissue anyone?’

‘Wow wow ow WOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWW…’

‘—Nice rubato.’

‘Wow wow wow wow wow wow wow wooooooow…’

‘—He could get a recording contract with a voice like that.’

‘Wow wow wow wow wow wow wow wow wow woow woow woooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwww!’

There was a moment’s silence, then thunderous applause.

‘Now’ said Caroline, ‘may we please have your votes?’ Jimmy was nowhere to be seen. I glanced at my watch—it was a quarter to five and the fete would soon finish. I felt my heart race. Where was he? ‘Can we have the votes for Desmond and his cover version of the Paul McCartney?’ I heard Caroline ask. There was a few seconds’ silence while she counted them. Maybe he’d gone into the house. ‘And now a show of hands please for Pretzel and her thrilling rendition of the Mozart…one, two…five…eight, okay…’ I looked towards the garden. ‘And lastly, your votes for Shep the sheepdog, and “Danny Boy”…Oh, that’s a very decisive result! So I’m delighted to announce that this year’s Little Gateley Pup Idol is Shep the sheepdog. Shall we ask him to sing it again?’

‘YEAAHHHH!!!!’

As Shep did his reprise I spotted Jimmy, chatting amiably to the woman running the tombola. ‘Thank you so much,’ I heard him say as I approached. ‘We really appreciate it.’ I hovered for a moment, knowing that he must have seen me on the periphery of his vision, but he pointedly kept his back turned. Then he moved on to a group of people by the refreshment tent. I could hardly interrupt.

‘Yes,’ I heard him say. ‘It’s been a wonderful afternoon, hasn’t it? No, we love having it here.’ I pretended to be engrossed in the bric-a-brac stall. ‘So lucky with the weather, yes. And how old are your lovely kids? Four and two? Lovely ages. How sweet.’ Now, as he strolled confidently towards the house, stopping every few yards to speak to someone, I discreetly pursued him, my heart racing. It was all very well confronting him, but what would I say? What words could evoke my feelings about the dreadful thing he’d once done? As he headed for the French windows I followed twenty feet behind, feeling like a stalker, the blood drumming in my ears. I’d go into the house and I’d speak to him. For the first time in sixteen years I’d call out his name.

‘Miss Sweet? Excuse me? Miss Sweet?’ I turned. An elderly man with a Jack Russell was standing there, smiling at me. I glanced towards the house. Jimmy had gone.

‘I just wanted to say how much I like your TV programme.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Thanks very much.’

‘I watched them all—and I can’t wait for the new series.’

‘Well, that’s great.’ I smiled, then turned to go.

‘I just wanted to ask your advice actually.’ My heart sank. ‘About Skip here.’

‘Er, yes. Of course. How can I help?’

‘He keeps digging up the garden. It’s driving me and my wife up the wall.’

‘Tell you what,’ I said, fumbling in my bag, and retrieving one of my business cards, ‘why don’t you e-mail me, and I’ll reply.’

‘Well it really won’t take long for me to explain now, and I just wanted to catch you before the end of the fete. You see we got Skip six months ago, from Battersea actually, and we just fell for him the moment we saw him…’ I stood there, an expression of polite interest superglued to my face while the man went into grinding detail about Skip’s excavations of the vegetable patch, the rose-bed, and the herbaceous border. ‘We do love him, but ooh, the damage he’s caused.’

‘You need a digging pit,’ I said, slightly irritably. ‘Terriers are natural diggers. That’s what they’re bred for, so he’ll never stop. But you can make sure that he’s fulfilling those natural instincts in a way that doesn’t wreck your garden. I suggest you build him a pit, like a sandpit, and fill it with wood chippings, and let him dig to his heart’s content in that. You could hide a few of his favourite toys in there to encourage him to use it,’ I added, trying to be helpful now.

‘Well, thanks very much. That’s good advice. A pit,’ he repeated, shaking his head. ‘I’d never have thought of that.’

‘Yes,’ I said, nodding. ‘A pit.’

I glanced to my left. Everyone was leaving the arena; the fete was almost over. People were packing up. I’d have to be quick.

‘Right, well thanks very much,’ said the man again.

‘My pleasure,’ I said. And I was about to walk away when I saw Caroline coming towards me with Trigger, smiling and waving. Blast. I couldn’t look for him now.

‘It’s gone brilliantly,’ she said. ‘I think we’ve raised over four thousand pounds. Thanks for being such a great judge. Here’s a small token of our appreciation,’ she handed me a bottle of champagne. ‘It’s a rather nice one, actually. Vintage—1987. That was a very good year, apparently.’

‘Really?’ I said faintly. Not for me.

‘James likes to keep a good cellar.’

‘I see. Well, thank you,’ I said. I had no intention of drinking it.

‘And I do hope you get some new clients out of this.’

‘Who knows? I was just glad to help out. It all seems to be winding down now,’ I added.

‘It does look like it.’ People were strolling across the lawn towards the gates. ‘Perhaps we’ll see you again some time,’ she added pleasantly. ‘I’ll let you know how I get on with this young man’s “education”,’ she grinned, nodding at Trigger. She was so natural and nice. I found myself wishing that she wasn’t. It made the situation somehow worse.

‘Yes. Do let me know. I’d love that.’

I walked towards my car, feeling demoralized. I’d failed in what I set out to do. And I knew I’d never get another chance to confront Jimmy, calmly and quietly, in the way I might have done today. If I wrote to him at the House of Commons, he’d claim he was too busy to see me, or he’d simply ignore me. I knew Jimmy. I knew how his mind worked.

‘Okay, Herman,’ I sighed. ‘Let’s go.’ I opened the driver’s door and was hit by a sudden blast of scalding air. Despite the shade from a huge chestnut, the interior was like a bread oven. We’d just have to wait. As I opened the passenger door I glanced at the house, and suddenly saw Jimmy framed in an upstairs window, standing there, looking down. He hovered for a moment, then disappeared. Disconcerted, I put Herman in the back and got in. The car was still hot, but I just wanted to leave. I’d wound down all the windows and was putting on my seatbelt, struggling with the clasp, when I was aware of a sudden shadow across the dashboard.

‘Hello, Miranda.’ I looked up at Jimmy. He was blocking out the sun. ‘I thought you were ignoring me,’ he said. He was doing his best to sound composed, but he was slightly breathless. He’d clearly just run down the stairs.

‘You thought I was ignoring you?’ I said, with a serenity which surprised me. ‘I had the impression it was the other way round.’

‘Oh not at all,’ he replied. ‘But I’ve been very busy, what with so many people to talk to and, well, I just wanted to thank you for helping us out.’

‘That’s fine,’ I said coolly. ‘Don’t mention it.’ I looked into his grey eyes, trying to read the expression in them. ‘And of course it’s in a very good cause. I remember how keen you always were on animal issues,’ I added boldly, my heart pounding.

‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘That’s right.’ He leaned against the neighbouring car and folded his arms. ‘And you, Miranda, you were very enthusiastic yourself,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Quite a fanatic in fact.’

‘Oh I wouldn’t say that.’ Now I understood what his agenda was. He was trying to establish my attitude.

‘Do you ever think about those days?’ he asked casually. He looked away for a moment, then returned his gaze to me. This was what he really wanted to know.

‘Do I ever think about those days?’ I repeated slowly. He was hoping that I’d say, ‘No. Never. Forgotten all about it.’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Actually, I do. I’ve been thinking about them quite a lot lately, as it happens.’

‘Really? But it was so long ago.’

‘That’s true. But at the same time it feels like yesterday in some ways. Doesn’t it to you?’

‘No.’ He’d said it firmly, but I saw a flicker of anxiety. ‘But you look just the same, Miranda,’ he said, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters.

‘You look quite different—I hardly recognized you.’

‘Well,’ he touched his head and grinned. ‘I don’t have quite so much hair. Anyway, I just wanted to say “hi” and well, thanks. So goodbye then, Miranda. It was nice to see you.’ He began walking towards the house.

‘Can I ask you a question, Jimmy?’ I called.

He stiffened slightly. ‘My name’s James,’ he corrected me.

‘Is it? Okay, James,’ I tried again. ‘What I want to know is…’ My mouth felt dry as dust. ‘Don’t you ever feel sorry for what you did?’ He stared at me, then blinked a few times. ‘Doesn’t your conscience ever prick you?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Yes you do. There’s no point pretending. There really isn’t. At least, not with me.’

‘Oh. Well…’ he put his hands in his pockets then emitted a weary sigh. ‘As I say, it was a long time ago. I really think it’s best…forgotten.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t agree.’ We stared at each other for a moment and I noticed him discreetly shift his weight.

‘Have you ever…mentioned it?’ he asked quietly. ‘To…anyone?’

‘Have I ever mentioned it to anyone?’ I repeated. I decided I’d make him wait for my reply. He ran his right hand through his hair and I noticed a dark, spreading stain beneath his arm. ‘No,’ I said finally. ‘I’ve never told a soul.’ I could almost smell his relief.

‘I didn’t think you would have done,’ he went on softly. ‘And of course that really is the best thing all round. I’d forget about it, Miranda. I really would.’

‘I’ve always found that hard to do.’

‘Well, I would,’ he insisted with benign menace. ‘Otherwise, well, you could land yourself in a lot of trouble. Couldn’t you?’

I felt my insides coil. ‘Is that a threat?’

‘A threat?’ He looked mildly scandalized at the suggestion. ‘Of course not. It’s just…’ he shrugged. ‘Friendly advice. You’ve got a nice TV career as an animal expert after all, and I’m a very busy man; and you see what happened then—’

‘No. Not “what happened”,’ I interjected hotly. ‘What you did. To the Whites.’

He shifted his weight again then looked away. ‘Well, that was as a result of…’ his eyes narrowed as he seemed to grope for the appropriate term, ‘…youthful indiscretion.’

‘Is that what you call it?’

He folded his arms again and then stared at the ground.

‘Well…maybe we did…misbehave.’ Misbehave? ‘But we were very fired up with our beliefs, weren’t we?’ he went on smoothly. ‘And we were so young.’

‘I certainly was—I was only sixteen. But it’s interesting that you should view it as mere “misbehaviour”.’ I snorted with mirthless laughter. ‘Is that really how you see it?’

There was silence for a moment.

‘We all make mistakes, Miranda.’

I shook my head. ‘Oh it was much, much more than that.’

His face suddenly darkened, and the corners of his mouth turned down. ‘Anyway, the old git had it coming to him,’ he muttered.

‘Why? ‘He didn’t reply. I stared at him non-comprehendingly. ‘Why? ‘ I repeated. ‘What had he done? I never understood.’

‘Oh…plenty of things. Plenty,’ he repeated, his face suddenly flushing. Then he seemed to collect himself. ‘But what a coincidence,’ he said smoothly. ‘Your meeting my wife like that.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘It was. But I didn’t make the connection immediately as of course you were called “Smith” in those days.’

‘Mulholland’s my mother’s maiden name,’ he explained. ‘I changed it when I became a journalist to make it a little more…distinctive. It’s not a crime, is it?’

‘No. That’s not a crime,’ I agreed. ‘You must have got a bit of a shock seeing me again.’

He gave me a tight little smile. ‘I guess I did. But on the other hand it’s a small world, and it did sometimes occur to me that you might pop up. Anyway,’ he glanced towards the house, ‘I mustn’t keep you. And Caroline will be wondering where I am.’ He tapped the top of the car to bring the conversation to an end. ‘Nice to see you again, Miranda. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye, Jimmy,’ I said as I started the engine. His smile vanished.

‘James,’ he said firmly. ‘It’s James.’