by Isabel Wolff
As we circulated at the champagne reception Trevor was interviewed by several journalists about his role in Beverley’s life.
‘How many commands has he got?…five hundred?… Is there anything he can’t do?… How would you manage without him Beverley?… Does he ever get a day off?’
‘Can he do a trick for us?’ I heard one of them ask.
‘No,’ Bev protested. ‘He can’t. He’s a professional assistance dog, not a circus performer.’
‘Good point,’ said Theo under his breath.
A gong suddenly sounded and we were summoned in to dinner. By now the atmosphere had become more intense.
‘—Don’t worry, Trixie—you’re a very special little dog.’
‘—Patch—don’t bite your claws!’
‘—Stop that, Fido! Stop it! Right now!’
‘—Oh God, he’s been sick!’
‘—It’s just nerves.’
There were about a hundred and fifty people plus the nominated dogs who sprawled under the tables, receiving scraps from their owners who were far too anxious to eat. As the wine flowed, the collective mood now became distinctly competitive.
‘—Snoopy was a finalist at the Golden Bonio award too you know.’
‘—So was Shep.’
‘—Well, Frisky was second in his class at World of Dogs last year.’
‘—And Whiskey can count.’
‘—Wags can count and spell. Quite difficult words actually.’
‘—Well, Trudy can type—really fast.’
Bev looked at me and rolled her eyes. I tried to talk to my neighbour but he was engaged in oneupdogship with the person on his right.
‘—Woofy’s got five “O” levels.’
‘—Bobby’s got eight. And two “A” levels.’
‘—I bet he hasn’t got his pilot’s licence though!’
‘—No, but he’s learning to drive.’
Theo was trying not to laugh while Beverley looked vaguely appalled. It wasn’t Trevor’s fellow competitors who were the problem so much as the other dog lovers who’d paid to attend. Suddenly a wine glass was clinked to call the room to attention, and the other Trevor McDonald got to his feet. He welcomed us all, then read out the nominations. I looked round the room; knuckles were white.
‘We have come here this evening to honour these Dogs of Distinction,’ he began as I clutched my napkin. ‘The difference they make to the lives of their owners, as well as the wider community, is incalculable. Their sense of duty, personal and public, is unparalleled. Choosing the winning dog from such a field has been a near-impossible task. Thankfully that didn’t fall to me, but to the panel of judges who have now made their choice. Ladies and Gentleman,’ he went on, opening the shiny gold envelope. ‘I know you’re all in suspense, so I’ll be brief. I am delighted to announce that this year’s Dogochox Dog of Distinction is…’ he pulled out the card, and a hush fell. He laughed. ‘…My namesake–Trevor McDonald!’ I gasped with delight. Theo hugged Beverley, whose face was a mask of astonishment, then stood up to help get her chair through the throng. He wheeled her up to the stage, accompanied by Trev as everyone applauded. But behind the polite clapping I could already hear slightly, well, bitchy things being said.
‘Fix!’ someone behind me whispered. ‘Just because he’s got the same name.’
‘It’s because of his media contacts,’ said another. ‘You know, because of that column he writes.’
‘—You don’t really think he writes that do you?’
‘—No, I think it’s her.’
‘—Never mind darling, we’ll try again next year.’
‘—Is there any more booze?’
And now Beverley was on the podium, Trevor alongside, amiably wagging his tail while she received the prize. Another hush descended as a technician attached a small clip-on microphone to her lapel, and she spoke.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she began shyly. ‘I’d like first of all to thank Dogochox at whose invitation we’re all here. And next I’d like to thank the panel of judges for choosing Trevor to be the winner of this year’s award. He’s prouder and more privileged than he—or I—can possibly express. He’s asked me to make a very short speech on his behalf, basically to say…’ she drew in her breath, ‘…that he politely declines to accept.’
A collective gasp went round the room.
‘—What??’
‘—Wass going on?’
‘—What’s she talking about?’
‘Trevor feels that he can’t accept this prize, however prestigious, for the simple reason that he feels that it’s…wrong. It’s wrong to put one brilliant and brave dog above another,’ she went on, her voice audibly shaking. ‘And so he’d like to share the prize with all his fellow nominees which means we have the trophy for one month each. As for the £1000 cheque, I suggest that it be donated to some animal charity of our choice. Thank you very much everyone, and well,’ she smiled and then shrugged, ‘that’s it.’
‘Wow!’ I heard someone say behind me. Beverley was surrounded by photographers and journalists as everyone shook their heads in plain disbelief.
‘—How amazing!’
‘—A bit controversial though.’
‘—What a nice dog!’
‘—What a nice woman.’
‘—Well I think they’ve got a good point.’
Now, as the shock subsided, Beverley and Trevor were given a huge round of applause, then she called all the other dogs up onto the stage and flashbulbs were popping and journalists were frantically tapping into their laptops. Beverley’s mobile rang, and I saw her get it out, and a huge smile lit up her face.
‘Hi!’ I heard her say—the clip-on microphone was still attached to her jacket‚—‘he won. He won!’ she shouted. ‘Sorry, it’s a very bad line. He won—but he’s refused it. Yes, that’s right.’ She was clearly telling Hamish what had happened, her face radiating joy and relief. ‘Well he didn’t feel it was right.’ I heard her add. ‘No, I agree with him one hundred per cent. How’s it going where you are?’ she asked. ‘It’s hot is it? Ooh, lucky you.’
I opened The Times the next morning to find a photo of Beverley and Trevor on page two headlined ‘FUR FLIES AT CANINE AWARD’. The Daily News facetiously dismissed it as a ‘Puplicity Stunt’. The Daily Post had a big photo of the two Trevor McDonalds together, headlined, Well I Never, Trevor!! The Daily Post’s columnist, golden Labrador Trevor McDonald sensationally declined to accept the Dog of Distinction award at yesterday’s ceremony, I read as I sat at my desk. Newscaster Sir Trevor McDonald (no relation) presenting the honour, was taken aback by his namesake’s decision not to accept the prize. ‘I was flabbergasted,’ Sir Trevor commented afterwards. ‘But Trevor had clearly given it serious thought.’ I looked at Beverley as she opened the day’s post.
‘Bev, you and Trev are famous.’
She shrugged. ‘It’s just our fifteen minutes, that’s all. It’ll soon blow over,’ she said calmly, ‘and then life will be nice and humdrum once more.’
‘Everyone’s talking about Trevor,’ said Bea when she rang me later that morning. ‘He’s becoming quite a celeb. He’ll be opening supermarkets before long and appearing on Have I Got News For You. Perhaps I ought to get him back in the shop,’ she mused, ‘he’d be a tremendous draw.’
‘Sorry, Bea, but I need him here. Anyway, how’s the business going?’
‘It’s actually going rather well. We’ve had three new commissions just this week. The only fly in the ointment is Bella’s chronic lack of concentration,’ she added bitterly. ‘Her mind’s not on the job. But that’s because she spends far too much time thinking about that idiot, and I just know that something’s going to go wrong.’
‘Bea,’ I said. ‘If you don’t give them some space it will go wrong. Don’t spoil it for Bella. It’s up to her who she dates and maybe this is her big chance.’
‘I’m not spoiling things,’ she said hotly, ‘I’m protecting her, and she’ll thank m
e for it one day. Honestly, Rose, I just know that Andrew’s going to let her down with a nasty bump.’
‘Let her be the judge of that, Bea. I agree that he’s a creep but—and tell me to get lost—I think you should let Bella make her own mistakes.’
‘Hmm. Well the same might well be said of you and Ed. You’re not going to move back in with him are you, Rose?’
I fiddled with the phone cord. ‘No, of course not. Don’t be absurd.’
‘I’d like you to move back in,’ Ed said the following night as we sat sipping Sauvignon in Bertorelli’s. He took my hand in his and held it to his lips. ‘I miss you, Rose. I’m so lonely without you.’
‘Ed,’ I said quietly, ‘it’s too soon. After all, there’s no hurry is there? I’m just very relieved that we’re getting on so well.’
He stroked my fingers, then sighed. ‘But it’s a month since we’ve started seeing each other again. That’s quite a long time.’
‘It isn’t, Ed, it’s quite short.’
‘But we’re married, Rose.’
‘That’s got nothing to do with it.’
‘Why do you hesitate?’ he asked gently as he kissed my hand again. ‘Can’t we bury the past?’ For some reason I had a sudden vision of Theo, standing in Holland Gardens, his hand on my shoulder, his breath warm on my cheek, pointing out the stars. ‘Why do you hesitate, Rose?’ Ed repeated quietly.
I fiddled with my wine glass. ‘I don’t really know.’
‘You must know.’
‘Well, I suppose because we made such a hash of it before, I want to be quite sure that we don’t get ourselves in a mess again.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I have an idea. Easter’s coming up, so why don’t we go away?’
‘Oh…’ I felt my face flush.
‘Just for the long weekend.’
‘I see.’
‘Wouldn’t that be nice?’
‘Hmmm.’
‘How about it? Just you and me, Rose, on a nice little Easter break somewhere warm, hm?’
Up until now Ed and I had been having purely platonic dates, if we went away that would change. Even though he was my husband and I still found him desperately attractive, something made me demur.
‘We could go to Paris,’ he went on. ‘I know a sweet little hotel.’
‘The Crillon?’ I said with a laugh.
‘Er, not quite. Or we could go to Florence if you like, or Rome.’
‘But…who would look after Rudy?’
‘Theo would.’
‘But he might be away himself. He goes off sometimes, star-watching, or giving talks. He’s making quite a name for himself on the lecture circuit actually. He’s a brilliant speaker.’
‘Well, think about it, Rose, and let me know. Would you like another drink?’
I shook my head. I’m drinking less these days.
‘Ed,’ I said suddenly. ‘It’s really nice seeing you again like this, and going out together, but—’
‘But what?’
‘Well, why do you want me back?’
‘Why do I want you back?’ he repeated.
‘Yes. I need to know. Is it simply because I’m the devil you know, and you don’t want to have to start again with someone new, because, if so, that’s not good enough.’
‘No,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘It’s not that at all.’ He drew in his breath. ‘The simple truth is that I love you, Rose. I was devastated when you left, even though I deserved it, and I’d like to put things right. Life’s too short, and too precious, to live with huge regrets, and I feel we have a real chance to be happy again. Think about Easter,’ he said as the bill arrived. ‘I’ve accumulated loads of air miles: we can go wherever you like.’
Over the next few days I did give it some thought—it was a seductive idea in many ways. We could go to Prague, I reflected, or Barcelona; we could go to Madrid, or Venice or Nice. I imagined us driving down the Grand Corniche, stopping for lunch in Antibes; I visualised us wandering around the Prado, or strolling through St Mark’s Square. I saw us clambering up a Tuscan hillside, a sea of wild flowers at our feet. We’d never been anywhere when we were together, apart from on honeymoon, because I’d never had time. It seemed incredible to me now that I could ever have been so obsessed with my work. Edith Smugg didn’t reply to all the letters personally, she simply answered as many as she could. And if one of my readers was behaving as I had done to Ed, then I’d have to tell them that it just wasn’t on.
Theo was right. I could see that now as clear as day. Out of a perverse ‘wish’ to be rejected, I’d neglected Ed’s needs; he deserved another chance. People don’t have affairs for no reason, I reflected. They don’t just happen, out of the blue. Ed hadn’t been in love with Mary-Claire, she was simply a cry for help. I could be a better partner now, I decided, because I finally understood a few big things about myself. It was as though Theo had shone a torch into the darkness of my mind and shown me the tangled mess.
The next day I decided to tell Ed that I would like to go away with him. We could have a really lovely weekend somewhere and, in any case, I desperately needed a break—I hadn’t had a holiday for over a year. Going with Ed wouldn’t commit me to moving in with him, it was just another step on the way. And I was sitting at work, drafting replies, and mentally packing for Cap Ferrat or Vienna or Rome or wherever, when the phone rang.
‘Daily Post problem page,’ said Beverley pleasantly. ‘No. No, it’s not, but she’s here. Who shall I say is calling? Oh.’ Her tone of voice suddenly changed. ‘I see.’ I glanced at her. She looked serious. ‘I’ll just put you through.’
‘Who is it?’ I whispered.
‘It’s Chelsea and Westminster hospital.’ Oh, they probably wanted to get me on some committee or other. What a bore.
‘Mrs Wright?’ said a business-like female voice.
‘Er, yes,’ I said, taken aback at being addressed by my married name.
‘This is Senior Staff Nurse Howells here.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m afraid your husband has had an accident. I think you’d better come in.’
Chapter 19
I was there within half an hour. All I knew was that Ed had broken his arm very badly, and fractured two ribs, and that he’d been severely concussed. He’d been up a ladder and it had slipped from under him and he’d fallen fifteen feet. If it weren’t for the fact that he’d landed on the grass he could have been killed, the nurse had said. I felt sick. The taxi drew up outside the hospital main entrance and I half walked, half ran through the long corridors to the admissions ward on the fourth floor. Ed was in the far bay, by the window. I parted the mauve curtain, and there he was, his eyes closed, a huge bruise on his brow like a small thunder cloud, his face grey and mottled with pain. I gently touched his left hand, and his eyelids flickered, then slowly opened.
‘Rose,’ he whispered. ‘You’re here. I—’ he was suddenly seized by a spasm of pain. He clenched his teeth and the sinews in his throat flared like flying buttresses, while drops of sweat beaded his brow. ‘Uuuuuuh,’ he groaned. ‘Uuuuhhhh! The pain.’
‘Ed, you’re lucky to be alive.’
‘I know.’
‘What on earth were you doing?’
‘Clearing leaves out of the gutter,’ he croaked. His mouth looked dry. I held a glass of water to his lips. ‘I had a day off,’ he explained, ‘and I was trying to fix a few things round the house.’
‘Why didn’t you get a roofer to do it?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t know. Don’t give me a hard time,’ he murmured. ‘I’m in agony.’ At this the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. ‘And you’re my agony aunt.’ I looked at his arm, in its fibreglass cast, and its pristine white sling. It was his right arm. Shit.
‘The nurse says you’ve broken your humerus.’
‘That’s why I’m not laughing,’ he groaned.
‘And you’ve cracked two ribs, and badly sprained your wrist.’ I looked at his red, swollen f
ingers protruding from the cast. ‘This is going to be tricky, Ed.’
‘I know. When I said we should have an Easter break this wasn’t quite what I had in mind. You should have heard the noise when my arm snapped, Rose. It was deafening. Uuuuuuhhh,’ he groaned again.
‘How did you get help?’ I asked as I helped him sip some more water.
‘My mobile was in my pocket, and I just managed to punch in 999 with my left hand. Then I fainted. I was out cold when they came.’
‘The nurse said you were lucky you didn’t have to have surgery. She says it’s a closed fracture, so your arm will heal without pins.’
‘Thank God,’ he shuddered. ‘I couldn’t have stood having an operation. I couldn’t have stood it,’ he repeated vehemently. ‘The injections. I loathe hospitals,’ he croaked. ‘Get me out of here, Rose, I absolutely loathe them.’
‘I know.’ Ed’s always had a phobia about hospitals ever since he had appendicitis as a boy. His local hospital didn’t treat it properly and he got peritonitis and nearly died.
‘But at least this is a nice hospital,’ I said soothingly.
‘It isn’t a nice hospital. It’s a horrible hospital. They’re all horrible, just get me out of here, Rose.’
‘Okay, okay—try to keep calm.’
‘Mrs Wright?’ The curtain had drawn back and standing there was Nurse Howells. ‘Could I have a word? Your husband’s going to be fine,’ she whispered as we stood outside his bay. ‘We’re just going to keep him in tonight for observation because he took a bad knock to his head. But we’re worried about him going home alone. Now, I understand that you’re separated, but on friendly terms.’ I nodded. ‘He’ll need help for at least ten days.’