by Isabel Wolff
The saddest thing of all was Herman’s distress at her departure—he whimpered inconsolably after she’d left. He might not have felt quite so upset if I’d been able to apprise him of the awful truth.
‘Don’t waste your tears,’ I told him. ‘She didn’t deserve you. You’re going to be a lot better off with me.’ Within a week Herman seemed to think so too, for he seemed grateful for my care and we’d started to bond, and we’ve been pretty inseparable ever since. But it was saving him from a premature end which got me thinking seriously about changing career. I’d already noticed how, in most cases, it isn’t the animal which has the ‘problem’, it’s the humans—and I realized how interesting it could be working with that. A week later I went to a lecture given by a vet who’d retrained as a behaviourist, and I decided that that was what I would do too. I’d still be working with animals, just as I’d always wanted, but without the relentless pressure and stress.
I had no serious financial commitments then, so I used my savings to go back to school. I went to Edinburgh for a year—with Herman—to do an MSc in Animal Behaviour, and I had a fascinating time. We didn’t study only companion animals, although that’s a large part of it, we studied many other species as well. We learned about primate behaviour, about farm animals, and birds, and deer; and there were lectures on marine animals and zoo animals too. I’ll never forget the things we learned. That polar bears are always left-handed, for example, and that chickens prefer pop music to rock. That if you chat pleasantly to a cow it will yield more milk, and that when a cat hisses it’s imitating a snake; that ants practise a form of agriculture, and that ravens are as clever as chimpanzees.
When I left I came back to London and began running a behaviour clinic three times a week from a vet’s practice in Highgate where I’d once worked. I was amazed at how quickly word got round, and I soon had a steady stream of dysfunctional Dobermans and stressed-out Siamese. I began to get good results. I did home visits too, and I set up a website where people could ask for my advice, free of charge. Then, just over a year ago, I got this big break.
I was contacted by a TV researcher who asked me whether I’d be interested in being an expert on a new series called Animal Crackers; so I was screen tested, and got the job. They’d been looking for someone young, knowledgeable, female, and tele-genic, which people kindly say I am. Not that I’m glamorous; I’m much too short for a start, I rarely wear make-up, and I keep my fair hair in a boyish crop. But I think I came across well because I felt confident—I knew what I was talking about. I’d do two sections in each programme, in which I’d analyse the problem then return ten days later to see whether my advice had worked. There were some very interesting cases—a police dog that was terrified of thunder, and a cat that went berserk when the TV was on. There was an irritable iguana—it was having romantic problems—and a pony which refused to be caught.
To my surprise, there was quite a buzz about the series. Someone wrote an article about me in the Mail, describing me as ‘Miss Dolittle’, which was just plain silly. I do not talk ‘to’ animals—I merely think like them—and there was a similar piece in The Times. But the exposure brought in new clients, so I decided I ought to have my own premises—which is how I found St Michael’s Mews…
From outside I heard the crunch of tyres on the cobbles as a car pulled up. There was the soprano beep of central locking, then rapid tapping.
‘Mir-an-da! It’s only me-ee.’ I slid back the chain and opened the door.
‘Wow!’ Daisy’s large brown eyes were shining with enthusiasm. ‘What a great place!’ I’ve known Daisy for fifteen years—we shared a flat at Bristol—and what I love about her is that she’s always upbeat.
‘This looks so great!’ she repeated as she came inside, cradling Herman over her left shoulder like a baby. ‘It’s spacious, isn’t it? And so light! Your builder’s done a fantastic job.’
‘He has.’
‘And the Mews is gorgeous.’
‘It is.’
‘It looks rather friendly.’
‘It seems to be. The aromatherapist and the osteopath have already introduced themselves, and the others all smile.’
‘I’ve always wanted to live in a mews—lucky you. You’ll feel safe here,’ she added, tucking a hank of glossy dark hair behind one ear. I nodded. ‘And is that Herman on the plaque?’
‘Of course.’
‘He’s been dying to see you again—haven’t you, Herman? Say hello to your mummy, poppet.’ Herman gave me a baleful stare.
‘Hello, Herman,’ I said, as Daisy put him in my arms. ‘Have you missed me?’ The two tan points above his eyes twitched and pleated into a deep frown, then he emitted a grumbly sigh. ‘He’s cross with me,’ I said as I cuddled him. ‘It’s all the disruption. He’ll come round in a bit. I’m sorry I neglected you, Herman,’ I added quietly. ‘But, you see…the thing is,’ I felt my voice catch, ‘…things have been a bit tough.’
‘Are you okay?’ asked Daisy softly. I nodded, but Herman’s foxy little face had blurred. ‘Now don’t worry, Miranda,’ I heard Daisy murmur as I sank onto a chair. She unzipped her bag. ‘You mustn’t worry because even though it’s all been horrible and you’ve had this awful, awful shock, I just know you’re going to be fine. Isn’t she, Herman?’ she added brightly, as she pushed a tissue into my hand. I pressed it to my eyes, breathed deeply a few times, then felt my panic subside. On Herman’s face was his habitual expression of exaggerated anxiety. It made me suddenly smile.
‘Thanks, Daisy.’ I blew my nose. ‘And thanks for taking care of him,’ I added, as I put Herman down and he began to sniff the new floor.
‘Oh, he was no trouble at all. He came to work with me most days.’ Daisy works for ‘The Aid of the Party’, an event and wedding planners based in Bloomsbury. ‘The clients loved him—and when I couldn’t look after him I took him round to my mum. She adored having him, and she was really sorry about… Well, she was really sorry.’
‘You didn’t tell her, did you?’
‘No. Of course not.’
‘Good. What did you say?’
‘I just told her that you’d broken up with Alexander, that you were camping here while the work was being done, and that it was a…difficult time.’
‘That’s fine. You’re the only person who knows,’ I added quietly, as she put down her bags.
‘Don’t worry—my lips are sealed. But didn’t you even tell your mother?’ she asked as she sat down. I shook my head. There are so many things—huge things—that I’ve never told her. I’m too ashamed, so I’ve bottled them up. ‘But why not?’ Daisy asked, looking puzzled.
‘Well, because she’s rather jaundiced about marriage, so I knew what she’d say. I just told her the engagement was off. She mostly seemed relieved that she wouldn’t have to see my dad again.’
‘But didn’t she want to know why it had ended?’
‘She didn’t, actually. But then she’s always so busy—you know how it is. What with three teenage girls to look after, not to mention the boys.’
Daisy nodded diplomatically. ‘Of course…the boys…’
‘Anyway, the fewer people who know, the better I like it.’
‘But it’s not as though you did anything wrong.’
‘No, but…’
‘But what?’
I stared at a rhombus of sunlight on the wall. ‘The whole thing makes me feel somehow…ashamed. The thought that I could have made such a mistake.’
‘But you couldn’t have known. You couldn’t have known that Alexander was like…that,’ she said delicately. ‘He seemed so, well…’ she gave a helpless shrug. ‘Perfect.’
‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘He did.’
‘So not a whisper from him then?’ she asked as she took off her cardigan.
‘No,’ I said bitterly. ‘But as we both know it’s over, what’s the point?’
‘I don’t blame you,’ she agreed. ‘Some things one can get over,’ she said carefully. �
�But I really don’t see how you could have got over that. Anyway—today’s the summer solstice,’ she went on purposefully, ‘which is a turning point—and this is a turning point for you too. You’re about to start a new, busy, happy phase of your life, Miranda, and I know it’s going to be good. Now, will you give me the guided tour?’
I stood up. ‘It won’t take long—it’s a good job Herman and I are both small.’ I’m five foot one and a half (at that height, the half matters) and my frame is slight. People often say I’m ‘petite’ or ‘gamine’. Daisy, on the other hand, is five foot eight and rather curvy. At Bristol we were called Little and Large.
Daisy admired the consulting room with its pale beech flooring, and yes, psychiatrist’s couch—in a practical beige—then we went into the tiny galley kitchen at the back.
‘Sweet garden,’ she remarked, as we looked out of the window into the minuscule courtyard. ‘It’ll look great when you fill it with pots.’ Then we went up the narrow stairs. I carried Herman because dachshunds get back problems. ‘I like the skylight over the bed,’ she remarked. ‘Very romantic. You can lie there and look at the stars.’
‘I’m not feeling romantic,’ I pointed out matter-of-factly.
‘Not now. But you will be. One day.’ She squeezed my arm. ‘You will get over this, Miranda. You’re only thirty-two.’
‘I feel fifty-two. It’s the stress.’ And not simply the stress of Alexander, though I didn’t say that to Daisy. As I say, I’ve always bottled things up.
‘Thank God the wedding plans weren’t very far advanced,’ she breathed as she peered into the wardrobe. That was true. Our engagement was so recent that we hadn’t got round to putting in the announcement. All we’d done was chosen the ring. Daisy looked in the tiny en-suite bathroom.
‘I must say your builder’s done a great job. It’s enough to destroy all one’s prejudices about them.’
‘I know. He did it to budget, and on time. He also did loads of extra things, just to help. He assembled my bed, and the desk; he even installed my computer. He obviously felt sorry for me.’
‘Did he know what you’d been…?’ Daisy’s voice trailed away.
‘Well…he was too tactful to comment, but I think he could tell.’
‘And how are you…feeling?’ she added as she sat on the bed.
I heaved a painful sigh. ‘Much better than I was.’
She picked up my bottle of sleeping pills. ‘Are you still taking these?’ I nodded. ‘Well, try not to. And you must eat more, you’re much too thin.’
‘Mmm.’ I’m about seven stone at the moment, though I ought to be eight. Interestingly, my size was one of the things that first attracted Alexander to me because he’s six foot one, and well built. He loved the fact that I was so small and boyish—he said it made him feel ‘manly’. He loved the fact that I came up to his chin. He liked to pull me into him then tuck me right under. I felt as though I were sheltering beneath a huge rock.
‘It was…incredible,’ I heard Daisy murmur as we went downstairs. ‘And what a let-down,’ she added indignantly. I shrugged. Men have let me down all my life. ‘Anyway, I’ve brought you some eggs and bread and some tomatoes, and I’m going to make you eat.’
As she opened one of the packing crates and found a bowl and a fork, I wondered, as I often do—I simply can’t help it—what Alexander was doing now. Just because it’s over doesn’t mean I don’t miss him; and I knew that he’d be missing me. We’d become great friends apart from anything else; we’d had such an easy, almost effortless, rapport.
I’d met him just over a year ago, not far from here, at the open-air theatre in Regent’s Park. I went with Daisy and her boyfriend, Nigel, to see The Tempest, a play I love. It was one of those magical summer evenings we sometimes get, with a clear sky, and a sliver of moon; and, as dusk descended, the lamps at the edge of the stage began to glimmer and shine. And when Alexander first appeared, as Ferdinand, a slight frisson went through the crowd. He looked just so, well, beautiful, I suppose—he has a beautiful face, with full, curving lips that you want to trace with your fingertip, fine cheekbones, dark hair, and blue eyes. I remember the actress playing Miranda declaring him to be a thing divine. And he called her Admired Miranda! Indeed the top of admiration, as though she were some rare work of art. And, although I hadn’t seen the play for years, so many lines from it still stay in my mind. Ariel singing Full Fathom Five so hauntingly, Miranda’s ecstatic O brave new world; then, finally, the wonderful moment when Prospero is redeemed. For instead of taking revenge on his wicked brother, as he’d vowed, he forgave him, because that was the courageous thing to do.
The rarer action is in virtue than in vengeance, he said simply. That made the hairs on my neck stand up. Then he broke his staff, stepped forward, spread wide his hands and asked for forgiveness himself:
As you from crimes would pardoned be,
Let your indulgence set me free.
We were all so spellbound that there was a silence of about ten seconds before the applause began; then, as it finally died away after at least three curtain calls, Daisy said that she wanted to go and congratulate the director, John, who she knew. So we went down to the stage door, and Daisy and Nigel were chatting to John, and I was standing nearby, clutching my programme slightly self-consciously when, to my surprise, I found myself talking to ‘Ferdinand’. Or, to be more precise, he began talking to me. And I couldn’t understand why he was bothering, because, being so short, I never assume that anyone’s even noticed me let alone that they’re interested; so I just said how much I’d enjoyed his performance, which of course I had.
‘Thank you,’ he said, smiling at me in a way which made my face heat up. ‘You’d have been a lovely Ariel,’ he added suddenly. ‘You’re so elfin.’
‘Oh.’ I felt myself blush again. ‘It’s a…wonderful play…isn’t it?’ I murmured, trying to cover my discomfiture.
‘And what do you think it’s about?’ He took a pack of Gitanes out of his pocket, and offered me one. I shook my head. What was the play about? And why did my opinion matter? Again, I felt taken aback.
‘Well,’ I began carefully as he tapped the cigarette on the side of the box. ‘It’s about penance and reconciliation, isn’t it? It’s about the search for forgiveness. It’s about the hope we all have that we’ll be redeemed.’ He nodded slowly at that.
The next thing I knew we were all going for a drink—I remember the delicious scent of his cigarette as we strolled through the park; and although there were quite a lot of us I somehow found myself sitting next to Alexander in the pub. We talked about the play some more, and he told me that Shakespeare actually invented the name ‘Miranda’ specifically for The Tempest, something I’d never known. I’d always known what it means—‘admirable’ from the Latin mirare, to wonder at—but that piece of information was new. And as Alexander and I sipped our beer, oblivious by now to the rest of the party, he asked me lots of other things about my work and my family and he told me a bit about his; that his parents were both doctors, semi-retired, and that his grandfather, like me, had been a vet. By the time we left, an hour and a half later, I felt as though I’d been talking to Alexander for days. And as he walked me to the tube—I lived in Stockwell then—he asked me for my card.
‘He’ll never ring,’ I told myself sternly as I rattled southwards. ‘Forget it. He was just being friendly.’ But he did. Two days later he rang to ask me if I’d like to have dinner with him that Sunday, at Joe Allen’s, and, to my amazement, things went on from there.
And yes, of course I was physically attracted to Alexander, and yes, flattered by his attention, but the truth is I really liked him as well. He was so easy to be with, and so intelligent, and, more importantly, he made me laugh. He was thirty-five, he’d read history at Oxford, then he’d done a postgraduate year at drama school. He’d started out spear-carrying at Stratford, then he’d done ten years in rep, as well as a number of small roles on TV.
‘But I’ve never
hit the big time,’ he said modestly. ‘Unlike some of my contemporaries, like James Purefoy—he’s done brilliantly. So has Paul Rhys. They never stop working, while I’m still paddling in the shallows of fame.’
‘I’m sure you’ll do very well too.’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe. Who knows…?’
‘All you need is one really good break.’
‘That’s true. Have you ever been married, Miranda?’ he asked suddenly. A small jolt ran the length of my spine.
‘Er… No. Not yet. I mean, not ever. I mean, never.’ He smiled. ‘Have you?’
He shook his head. He explained that his last relationship had ended three months before but that he was still ‘on good terms’ with his ex. And when, heart racing, I asked him why it had ended, he just shrugged and said ‘it hadn’t worked out’.
By the end of that first date I was stratospheric; I was on Cloud Nine—no, Cloud Ninety-Nine—as we strolled down the Strand to the tube. I felt so absurdly happy, I was smiling at strangers; and Alexander said he’d call me again—and he did. As time went on I realized that I simply loved being with him. I loved his warmth, and his sense of fun. And I liked the fact that he was a good talker; there were no strained silences—he always had plenty to say. He wasn’t egotistical or ‘actorish’, though he did have a whimsical side. He could be slightly impetuous—a creature of instinct—he’d suddenly say, or do, surprising things. For example, the first time he told me he loved me was when we were at the dairy counter in Sainsbury’s. I’d just reached for a tub of Greek yoghurt when I suddenly heard him say, ‘I love you, Miranda. Did you know that?’
‘Really?’ I looked at him in amazement.
He smiled. ‘Yes. Really.’ I was thrilled, of course—but what a strange place to tell me. ‘You’re wonderful—you live up to your name.’ And when we got engaged, not long afterwards, he had the ring engraved with, Admired Miranda! But I don’t have it any more…