by Isabel Wolff
‘And what about the clients?’ I heard Daisy ask now, as she broke two brown eggs into the Pyrex bowl. ‘You’re opening tomorrow, so have you got any bookings?’
‘Only two.’
‘Why so few?’
‘Because I haven’t had time to spread the word that I’m in new premises—the practice will take time to build.’
‘I see.’
‘But I’ve got a depressed Irish setter coming in the morning—and then this woman called Lily Jago got in touch—’
‘Oh yes,’ Daisy interjected, her eyes widening. ‘The editor of Moi! magazine. Looks like Naomi Campbell, and often behaves like her too. A friend of mine worked for her once—it took her six months to recover.’
‘That’s the one. Anyway, she sent me a hysterical e-mail about her shih-tzu—she says it’s having a “nervous breakdown”—so I’m going round there on Tuesday afternoon, but that’s all I’ve got in the diary so far.’
‘It’s a pity animal psychiatry isn’t like human psychiatry,’ Daisy added as she began whisking the eggs. I nodded. If only it were. Humans go to their shrinks for months, if not years, but with animals it’s not the same. They don’t come to me week in week out and lie there staring at the ceiling while I evaluate the state of their id and their ego and then quiz them about their mum. I simply observe them, identify the problem and advise remedial action, which means I usually only see them the once.
‘What are you going to charge?’ Daisy asked as she lit the hob.
‘A hundred pounds per one-and-a-half-hour consultation here, and if I go to them, it’ll be a hundred and thirty, to compensate for the travelling time. I’ll continue giving free advice by e-mail as that creates goodwill and doesn’t take long. And I’m going to have puppy parties,’ I added, ‘so that should help, but I need lots of new cases to make it all pay. Especially as I’m opening nearly a month late.’
‘Well, you needed time to…recover,’ Daisy said. That was true. ‘And it’ll pick up when the next series of Animal Crackers goes out, won’t it?’
‘With any luck—but that’s not for three weeks.’
‘Actually, I might have a new client for you,’ Daisy said as she opened a carton of milk. ‘Someone I met the other day at a charity do. Caroline…what was her name? Oh yes, Mulholland. She was complaining about her Weimaraner. Said it was behaving like an “absolute moron”. As I didn’t know your new number I told her to contact you through your website.’
‘Thanks. I hope she does. And how are things with you on the work front?’ I asked as I unpacked my plates.
‘Oh frantic,’ she said gaily as she got out a small saucepan. ‘I’ve got an Abba Tribute hen night in Hammersmith on Wednesday, a Siberian Soiree birthday bash with Cossack dancers on Saturday, and I’m desperately trying to find a couple of contortionists for a Trail to Timbuktu extravaganza in Thames Ditton next month. Plus all the weddings!’ she wailed. ‘We’ve got six, and three of them have fallen to me. I’ve just had to find some biodegradable confetti for this wedding in Holland Park in September,’ she went on, as she beat the eggs. ‘I managed to track some down on the Net. Dried delphinium petals in five colours, absolutely gorgeous. I’ve got to enclose a sachet with each invitation—two hundred. Sounds lovely, doesn’t it?’ she murmured wistfully. ‘Two hundred guests… Holland Park…dried delphinium petals…’
‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘It does.’
‘Sorry, Miranda,’ she said, collecting herself. ‘That was tactless of me.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘I was actually thinking of myself.’
‘I know. Hasn’t he said anything?’ She shook her head. ‘Not even a hint?’
‘No,’ she said bitterly. ‘Not so much as a cough.’
‘Well, why don’t you propose to him then?’
She stopped beating, her brown eyes widening in amazement. ‘Because it’s so unromantic.’
‘So is not being asked.’
‘Yes,’ she said crossly. ‘I know.’ She picked up the pepper grinder and gave it several vicious twists.
‘Don’t you ever discuss it with him?’ I asked as I sat at the table.
She shook her head. ‘I don’t want to destabilize things.’
‘I see.’
‘And I suppose I’m worried I might not get the answer I’m hoping for, so I’d rather keep things nice and smooth. But he does definitely love me,’ she added optimistically. ‘I say to him, “You do love me, Nigel, don’t you?” and he always replies, “Yes, Daisy, of course I do.”’
‘He should bloody well prove it then. It’s been long enough.’
‘Mmm. That’s just what my mum says. I mean, Alexander didn’t hang around, did he?’
I sighed. ‘No. It was quite quick.’
It was also, as proposals go, rather unusual; but, as I say, Alexander is an impulsive man. We’d been together nine months and we were very happy; I’d just moved in with him, and it was going well. And we were both in the bathroom one Saturday morning, cleaning our teeth together at the basin, smiling at each other in the mirror, when he suddenly paused in mid-brush, and, still looking at me in the glass, said, ’anda, ill oo arry ’e?’
‘What?’
He took the toothbrush out of his mouth, sipped some water from the glass, then spat neatly into the sink. ‘I said, “Miranda, will you do me the inestimable honour of becoming my wife?” I’ve just decided, this minute, that I want to marry you.’
I looked at him in amazement. ‘Why?’
‘Well, because, just standing here with you now, brushing our teeth together like this, suddenly made me realize how happy I am with you, and so, well, I suppose that’s why. I’d rather not get down on bended knee if you don’t mind, because of my cartilage problem,’ he added matter-of-factly. ‘But, will you say yes, Miranda? Mm?’ A wave of emotion broke over me as I realized he meant it. ‘Will you?’ he repeated. His swimming-pool blue eyes were staring into me.
‘Well…are you sure?’ I stuttered. ‘I mean…’
‘Never been surer of anything,’ he said quietly.
‘Then…yes,’ I said wonderingly. ‘I will.’ And then, because I was so overwhelmed, I just said, ‘Thank you’, and burst into tears.
He wrapped his arms round me. ‘No. Thank you. Don’t cry, Miranda. There’s no need to cry. I love you. I always will.’ I dried my eyes, we exchanged a minty kiss, and that was that.
I’m not being disingenuous when I say I was completely taken aback, because I truly didn’t expect to get engaged. Maybe because my parents divorced so long ago—and haven’t been that civilized since—I’ve never had any illusions like that. For me, it was enough just to feel that I was in a happy relationship, to know that I’d been lucky enough to find love. But Daisy’s different—she’s much more conventional—she wants the church, the meringue, the whole works.
‘It’s a bit galling having to do all these weddings when Nige won’t pop the question,’ she said regretfully, fork poised in mid-air. ‘I think he will marry me,’ she continued judiciously. She often says that. ‘But I don’t think it’s worth pushing it just now.’
The fact is, Daisy’s terrified of pushing it. I know this because she’s been with Nigel for five and a half years and we’ve been having the same conversation for three. ‘I mustn’t put him under pressure,’ she said seriously. ‘That’s what the books all say.’
‘The books also say that you should be a bit more detached. Don’t be there for him so much. Make him miss you. Be mysterious. Move town if need be. Or even country, God knows.’
‘Oooh—that’s a very dangerous game.’
‘Why?’
‘Because,’ she said, with an air of spurious authority, ‘if I suddenly withdraw, and act all aloof, then he might think I don’t really love him. And that would be disastrous, wouldn’t it?’
I looked at her. ‘I’m not sure. I think it might do him some good to feel a bit less secure.’
‘No, I think it�
��ll all happen in the fullness of time,’ she added, with a slightly twitchy serenity.
‘Hmmm. Well, it’s your life.’
But I find it odd that Daisy’s so scared of asking Nigel whether or not he intends to marry her, because in other ways she’s incredibly brave. For example, she spends her days off bungee-jumping, hang-gliding, abseiling and rock-climbing—and she did her first solo sky-dive a few weeks ago.
‘It would be catastrophic if I forced him to name the day and then he booted me,’ she said sagely. ‘Then what on earth would I do? I’ve invested nearly six years of my life in Nigel and to be quite crude about it I’d like a return. So I don’t want to blow it all at this final—and very delicate—stage by not being quite patient enough.’ I nodded, though, as I say, I’ve heard this line of argument many times before. ‘I want to have kids,’ Daisy went on calmly, ‘and I’m now thirty-three, so if Nigel and I split up—’ she gave a little shudder ‘—it would take me at least two, maybe even three years to get to the same stage with someone else, by which time…’ she poured the egg mixture into a frying pan, ‘…it may well be curtains on the ovary front. And I’d never trap him into marriage,’ she added. ‘Men resent that. I want him to want to marry me.’
‘Why shouldn’t he want to marry you?’ I said hotly.
‘Oh, he’s just the cautious type.’ Too right. Nigel’s very cautious; he proceeds as slowly as a three-toed sloth. They move so slowly—it would take them a day to cross a football pitch—that they actually grow mould on their fur. Anyway, when it comes to romance, I’m afraid Nigel’s like that. And this dilatoriness is reflected in his hobby—growing bonsai trees. He once won a medal at Chelsea for one of his Japanese maples—he’d been tweaking it for twenty years. To be honest, I’ve never really been able to see what he and Daisy have in common, but she seems to dote on him. But she has a tiny flat in Tooting and he has a large house in Fulham; and she did once admit after a few too many that, yes, it was the ‘security’ which partly appealed. Though why a woman who spends her weekends throwing herself out of aeroplanes should be interested in ‘security’ is way beyond me. But, on the other hand, her father died tragically when she was nine so she’s always been looking for someone ‘steady’ and ‘safe’.
And Nigel’s certainly that. He’s a City solicitor—a partner in Bloomfields. Solidly competent, rather than effortlessly brilliant, he works incredibly hard; and though I’m sure he’s very fond of Daisy, I guess he can’t see any reason to rush. He’s thirty-nine and has never been married, so what on earth would make him jump now? He hasn’t even asked her to live with him yet. Daisy has jokingly suggested it a few times, but she says he never seems keen—I think he doesn’t want her messing up his stuff. She’s quite untidy and can be rather noisy, though I mean that in the nicest way. It’s not that she shouts, or is grossly opinionated, simply that she laughs a lot—she’s got this lovely, chortling giggle—and she always has plenty to say. Whereas Nigel just likes his evenings in with his bonsai trees plus a quiet dinner and the odd game of bridge. Don’t get me wrong. I like Nigel—he’s pleasant and he’s generous—but he’s also selfish, because he has Daisy entirely on his terms. But if he’s what she wants, then that’s good enough for me.
‘I think it’ll be fine with Nige,’ she said again, not very convincingly, as I ate the omelette.
‘I hope so. But I do think you’ll have to pin him down at some point, Daisy.’ If necessary, by stapling his head to the carpet.
‘Hmm,’ she said, anxiously. ‘Maybe you’re right.’
After she’d gone, Herman went to sleep on his beanbag, curled up like a burnt cashew nut, while I turned my thoughts back to work. With all the stress and disruption I’d been unable to concentrate on it, but now I forced myself back into professional mode. I turned on the computer, and read my e-mails. There was one from my dad, who lives in California, in Palm Springs, where he manages a golf resort. He just wanted to know how I was. Then I logged on to my website, ‘PerfectPets.com’, where there were a number of outstanding requests for advice. ‘My poodle terrorizes the postman,’ said the first one. ‘After his latest efforts to “defend us” (there was actually blood on the letters) we’ve been told that in future we’ll have to collect our mail from the sorting office—can you help?’ ‘I think my cat’s schizophrenic,’ said the next. ‘One minute she’s curled up on my lap for a cuddle, purring her head off, then the next second she’s biting me—why?’ ‘Can you tell me why my female spaniel insists on cocking her leg?’ enquired a third. There were the usual complaints about dogs jumping up, or chasing their tails; there was a house rabbit which kept attacking its owners’ feet. There was a gay guinea pig, a sleep-walking Saluki, and a hamster which had eaten its mate. I sent replies to each one, with suggested reading, and as I was doing this, another e-mail popped in. It was from the woman Daisy had mentioned, Caroline Mulholland.
‘Dear Miranda, I met your friend Daisy at a fundraiser the other day and I happened to mention that I have a young Weimaraner which is being an absolute pain. It bullies our two other, much smaller dogs, and we don’t know how to get it to stop. I wondered whether you’d be kind enough to call me, as I’d like to arrange for you to come out.’ There was an out of London phone number which I rang. She picked up, and told me that she lived near St Albans, so we arranged that I’d go there the following day.
In the meantime I had the depressed Irish setter to deal with. So the next morning I tidied the consulting room, then went round the corner—stopping to answer Russell the chiropractor’s polite enquiries about how I was settling in—and bought some biscuits and flowers. Then I put Herman in the kitchen—he doesn’t mix with the clients—and, at ten-thirty, Fiona and Miles Green turned up. They were about my age, good-looking, well dressed and clearly successful judging from their smart address in Notting Hill Gate. I made them some coffee, then sat behind my desk, observing the dog, which did look rather dismal, while they sat side by side on the couch.
‘We’re both very busy people,’ Fiona explained as she nibbled on a chocolate oliver, ‘but you see Sinead’s our pride and joy…’ Sinead was lying on the rug with her head in her paws, ‘…and we felt it was important to get her some psychological support.’
‘She does seem rather dejected,’ I said, as I took notes. ‘Irish setters are normally incredibly lively. So when did this subdued behaviour first start?’
‘About three months ago,’ Mrs Green replied.
‘No, it’s not as long as that,’ her husband corrected her gently. ‘I’d say it was about six weeks actually.’
‘No, it wasn’t!’ she snapped. ‘It was three months. Do you think I wouldn’t notice something like that—my own dog?’ I discreetly wrote down ‘child substitute’ and ‘marital tension’.
‘Our dog,’ he said. Sinead lifted her head and looked at them anxiously.
‘It’s all right, baby,’ said Fiona, leaning forward to stroke her. ‘It’s all right. Mummy and Daddy aren’t cross.’
‘How old is she?’ I asked. ‘Two?’
‘Just under. We’ve had her for about a year and a half.’
‘And has she had any specific traumas? Did she get in a fight with another dog, for example? Or has she had a near miss with a car?’
‘No. Nothing like that,’ said Fiona. ‘I work at home, so I’m with her all day. All I know is she seems constantly depressed and she just lies in her basket. It’s heartbreaking,’ she added, her voice suddenly catching.
‘I don’t wish to be personal, Mr and Mrs Green, but are there any specific stresses in the, well, family dynamics, to which she might be reacting?’ This was a rhetorical question. There clearly were.
‘Well, no, not…really,’ Fiona replied, crossing her arms defensively.
I saw her husband roll his eyes. ‘C’mon, Fi,’ he said wearily. ‘You know there are. And I think it’s relevant. I’ve said so all along.’ He looked at me. ‘You see—’
‘I don’t want to discu
ss it!’ she hissed.
‘But it might be important,’ Miles protested.
‘But it’s private!’
‘It’s all right, Mrs Green,’ I interjected. ‘I’m not asking you to tell me anything you don’t want to. But I can assure you that I’m bound by a code of confidentiality which means that anything you do choose to tell me will go to my grave.’
‘Okay then,’ she sighed. She opened her bag and got out a tissue; her husband gave her arm an encouraging squeeze. ‘We’ve been trying for a baby for four years,’ she explained quietly. ‘That’s why we got Sinead, actually, to distract us from the stress. This year we’ve had IVF, but our first two attempts have failed.’
‘Well, that would put a strain on any relationship, however happy,’ I said. They both nodded. ‘And dogs are incredibly sensitive to changes in atmosphere, and I think Sinead is simply picking up on that. So I think that you should try and protect her from emotional stress by having any sensitive discussions when she’s out of the room.’
‘But it’s not just that she’s depressed,’ said Fiona. ‘She’s been behaving in a peculiar way. For instance, she’s started stealing things.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Very odd things—Miles’s shirts out of the laundry basket, for example.’
‘She might find it comforting if he’s out.’
‘But she steals old egg-boxes too. And the other day she took five empty plastic flowerpots out of the garden, one by one, and put them in her bed. And she was arranging them so carefully, almost tenderly, as if she loved them. It was weird. We didn’t know what to think.’
Ah.
I got up and went over to Sinead, pushed her gently onto her side, and lifted up the feathery fur on her underside. Her tummy was slightly bloated and pink.
‘Has she been anywhere near a dog?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes—positive. And when she was last on heat we kept her in.’
‘Then she’s having a phantom pregnancy. That’s why she’s so subdued. Females that have never been mated can get very broody. They become listless, and they stay in their beds, which they carefully arrange, because basically they’re making a nest. Then they look for objects which they can put in their “nursery” and “mother”—hence the egg-boxes and flowerpots. They even show some of the symptoms of pregnancy, just as she’s doing. Look at her nipples.’