by Isabel Wolff
Fiona’s jaw slackened.
‘Good God.’
‘If she’d been smooth-haired you would have noticed it, but her long fur covers it up. That’s what it is. A phantom pregnancy. I used to see this when I was a vet.’
‘I see.’
‘So you don’t have to worry that she has psychological problems, or any kind of depression—she doesn’t. She just wants to be a mum.’
Mrs Green dabbed at her eyes. ‘Maybe she’s doing it in sympathy with me.’
‘We were going to have her spayed actually,’ said Miles.
‘Can I make a suggestion?’ They both nodded. ‘Don’t. Or, at least not yet. Why don’t you let her have puppies?’
‘Actually…that’s a very good idea,’ said Miles slowly. He suddenly smiled. ‘We hadn’t thought of that.’
‘No,’ Fiona agreed. She stroked the dog’s head. ‘We’ve been so caught up in ourselves.’
‘And it’s nice for girl dogs to be allowed to have at least one litter,’ I pointed out, ‘otherwise, well,’ I shrugged, ‘they can feel a bit sad.’
‘Oh,’ said Fiona. ‘I see. We could have puppies. That would be fun, wouldn’t it, darling?’ Miles nodded. ‘Maybe we won’t have a baby, but we’ll have some sweet little puppies.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘that’s what I would do if I were you.’
‘Well, that’s very good advice,’ Fiona said as they stood up. ‘I feel quite overcome.’ She gave me a watery smile. ‘Thanks.’
‘Not at all.’ I felt slightly emotional myself.
CHAPTER 2
Maybe Sinead was picking up on Fiona’s frustration, I thought, as I prepared to set off for Caroline Mulholland’s house half an hour later. Maybe she was even trying to have a baby for her, who knows. I mean, dogs do imitate us, because they love us—they want to do all the things that we do. We sit—they sit. We sing—they howl. We vacate the driver’s seat—they jump right in. We get broody—maybe they get broody…? That’s the thing about being a behaviourist: you have to work out what’s going on with the owners before you can begin to sort out their pet. I checked my appearance in the mirror, retouched the concealer below my eye—I need less now—then ran a brush through my hair and left. Daisy was right about the Mews being friendly, I realized, as Joy, the osteopath, gave me a cheery wave. Caroline Mulholland lived in a village called Little Gateley, five miles from St Albans; I guessed it would take an hour and a quarter if the traffic wasn’t too bad.
As I drove through Archway I passed Alexander’s road, heart pounding like a tom-tom, my mouth as dry as dust. Masochistically, I glanced down Harberton Road—for the first time since ‘it’ happened—and felt a wave of distress. But, once I’d got through the queues in Finchley and Barnet, I was soon coasting down lush country lanes; and as I wound down the window and saw the intense yellow of the rape and the fields of green corn, I relaxed—Daisy was right. This was a turning point; the start of a new phase in my life and I was determined to make it work out. Fifteen minutes later I came to St Albans, where I soon spotted the village sign. I passed the green with its horse chestnuts, laden with fading pink candles, then just beyond the church I saw gates. ‘Little Gateley Manor’ was carved on one of the pillars and I turned in.
The house was just as I expected—straight out of Country Life. Georgian, painted white, and with a circular drive sweeping up to an imposing, rose-smothered front door. As my wheels crunched over the gravel, I heard a deep throaty barking, saw a silver flash, and the Weimaraner came bounding up. Then a woman appeared, running after it, visibly flustered.
‘Oh Trigger! You naughty boy! Come here! Hello, I’m Caroline,’ she said slightly breathlessly as I got out of the car, and the dog jumped up at me. ‘I’m so grateful to you for coming out.’
I’m normally circumspect when I meet someone new, but I immediately took to her. She was thirtyish, with dark blonde hair scraped back in a ponytail, and she was attractive in a non-glossy way.
‘I’m so grateful to you,’ she repeated. As we went up the steps I inhaled the scent of the roses. ‘I’ve been at my wits’ end. You see, we adore Trigger but he’s such a handful, and in particular he’s horrid to my two Westies—Tavish and Jock.’
I looked at them, scuttling round her feet in the black and white marble-tiled hallway, casting anxious looks at the bigger dog. ‘And they were here first, were they?’
‘Yes. I had them before I got married. But then my husband decided that he’d like a proper “man’s dog”—’ she giggled ‘—and so I got him Trigger for his birthday, but sometimes I think I made a mistake.’
‘He’s certainly beautiful,’ I said, as I followed her into the large drawing room. ‘They’re such individual-looking dogs, aren’t they?’ I gazed at his coat, the colour of pale pewter, and at his unearthly, intense, amber eyes.
‘Oh yes,’ she agreed. ‘They’re gorgeous-looking things.’
‘But they’re also strong-willed and need firm control.’
Caroline laughed. ‘Well, that’s precisely where we’ve slipped up.’ She sank into one of the sofas and Trigger tried to clamber onto her lap. ‘Stop it you naughty dog! Get down! Get down will you!’ One of the Westies then jumped up at her, and Trigger snapped at it viciously. Her hand shot out and she smacked his behind. ‘Oh do stop it you bad, bad boy! Do you see what I mean?’ she sighed. ‘I wasn’t exaggerating, was I? It’s hopeless. Anyway, let’s have a cup of tea first.’
As she disappeared, all three dogs running after her, slithering on the marble tiles, I glanced around the room. It was gorgeous—twenty-foot ceilings with egg and dart coving, in one corner a baby grand; two apricot-coloured Knole sofas, a scattering of mahogany tables, and an enormous fireplace with a marble surround. There were gleaming oils on the walls, and on the mantelpiece were several photos in silver frames, including one of Caroline on her wedding day. I looked at it, then looked away, glancing into the flower-filled garden. A solitary magpie swooped onto the lawn, chattering loudly. ‘One for sorrow,’ I said to myself quietly. Then I looked at the photo again…
There was something strangely familiar about Caroline Mulholland’s husband, but I couldn’t for the life of me think what it was. He looked mid-to-late thirties in the photo, and his hair was receding and already quite grey. But he was certainly handsome—they made a good-looking couple. I found myself wondering what he did. No doubt he was a successful banker, or a captain of industry—perhaps I’d seen him on the news. Yes…that must account for my sense of déjà vu, I thought: I’d seen him in the media somewhere. Caroline reappeared with a tray, then suggested that we had the tea outside so that I could see Trigger ‘in action’. But I’d already identified the problem—he was an over-indulged alpha male. He felt he should naturally be number one in the pack. He needed to have his status reduced.
‘He’s desperate to dominate,’ I explained, as we sat on the terrace, watching him with the other two dogs.
Caroline put her tea cup down. ‘Is he?’
‘Yes. This might sound harsh, but what he needs is to be knocked off his pedestal.’
‘Really?’ she said. I nodded. ‘But how?’
‘By you taking far less notice of him. He’s a chronic show-off—if he’s got your attention he’s thrilled. And the more you shout at him, the more he likes it—because then he knows you’re focussed on him. You’re actually rewarding his “bad” behaviour by reacting to it.’
‘I am?’
‘Yes—you’re inadvertently indulging him.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘Every time you shout at him, he actually thinks you’re praising him, so that’s going to make him worse.’
‘I see,’ she said again, thoughtfully.
‘I don’t like to anthropomorphize animals,’ I went on. ‘But let’s put it this way. If Trigger was human, he’d be driving round in a red BMW—which you’d probably bought him for his birthday—barging people off the road, ogling girls out of the window, then going t
o some party and getting horribly drunk.’
‘How awful,’ she said, with mock seriousness. ‘Like some silly “It boy”.’
‘Exactly.’
‘He’d embarrass us,’ she said, playing along. ‘He’d bring disgrace on the family,’ she added gravely. ‘He’d be getting into fights.’
‘I’m afraid he would. He’d be kicked out of school, he’d struggle to hold down a job and—I don’t want to alarm you—he might even take drugs.’
‘Really?’ She looked genuinely stricken. ‘Well,’ she added purposefully, as Trigger bounded joyfully about, barking his head off, ‘we’ve got to nip this in the bud.’
‘And we will. I won’t be able to “cure” him today,’ I pointed out. ‘But I can show you how you’re accidentally reinforcing his negative behaviour, then you’ll be able to work with him on your own. But you’ll need to be committed.’
She looked at me seriously. ‘Okay. Tell me what to do.’
I explained that the best punishment for Trigger was not to be yelled at—but to be totally ignored.
‘Dogs can’t stand it,’ I continued. ‘It’s the worst punishment in the world for them to be denied their human’s undivided attention—but that’s what you’ve got to do. And if he behaves really badly—say if he bites one of the other dogs—then he has to have some time out. Because if he’s tethered and the other two are free, that’ll really take him down a few pegs.’
‘I see.’ Trigger suddenly snapped at one of the Westies, then pinioned it to the ground.
‘Oh you beast!’ Caroline had rushed up to him and grabbed him by the collar.
‘No, don’t say anything,’ I said. ‘Simply tie him up somewhere.’
‘Tie him up?’
‘Yes. I know it sounds unkind, but it’s not.’
Caroline disappeared for a moment, then reappeared with Trigger’s lead. Then she tethered him to the gatepost, in the shade, with a bowl of water.
‘Now, we’ll leave him there while we stroll around with the other dogs, off the lead. He won’t be able to stand it.’
By the time we untied him five minutes later, Trigger was shaking and trembling. ‘Look how his body language has changed,’ I said. ‘He can’t understand why you did that to him. He found it incredibly humiliating. He’s upset and subdued. Look—he’s really grovelling.’ He was. He was practically sitting on Caroline’s feet, looking up at her imploringly, whimpering softly.
‘Wow,’ she breathed. ‘I see what you mean.’
‘If you really want his behaviour to improve, then you’ve got to make him feel less secure. Basically, he’s a bully,’ I said, ‘and like most bullies he’s a coward, so if you’re firm you’ll put him in his place. He’s got to have his desired position as top dog taken away,’ I reiterated.
She nodded. ‘I just didn’t realize all this, because I’ve never had a difficult dog before.’
‘Well, does it make sense to you?’
‘Yes.’ She seemed surprised. ‘It does.’
‘What you need to do is to carry out a dominance reduction programme, both outside and inside the house.’ As we went in again, I reminded her that dogs are pack animals, and need to know their place in the hierarchy otherwise they feel unhappy and confused. ‘They’re like young children,’ I went on. ‘Children are happier when they’re given firm boundaries—and that’s what you’ve got to do with him. So you mustn’t let him sit on the sofa,’ I added, ‘or get on the bed—otherwise that means he’s at your own height. Don’t let him go through doors before you, and make him wait until you’ve eaten before he gets fed. In fact, feed the other dogs first.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Show him that his status is not as high as he’d like to think it is.’
‘And how long will it take for him to learn?’
‘Well, he’s very intelligent, so maybe just a few weeks. But you’ll have to stick to it religiously,’ I said, as we returned to the drawing room. ‘I know you love him, but making him learn how to behave well is actually the kind thing to do. And if he’s aggressive to the other dogs, then tether him for a few minutes; he’ll gradually make the association and stop.’
‘I feel so much better now,’ Caroline breathed as she scribbled down notes. ‘You’ve explained it all very well. Now, I must pay you.’ As she went in search of her handbag I gazed again at her wedding photo. I hadn’t seen her husband on the TV. I’d met him. Definitely… There was no question. But where? Suddenly the phone rang, and I heard Caroline pick up.
‘Oh, that is disappointing,’ I heard her say. The hall was so large, her voice echoed. ‘Well, don’t worry, I quite understand. I don’t know who else I’ll find at such short notice, but if that’s the situation it can’t be helped. Thanks for letting me know,’ she concluded, regretfully. I heard her footsteps, then she reappeared, looking thoughtful.
‘That’s a nuisance,’ she said. ‘We’ve got the village fete here on Saturday in aid of the PDSA. We’re having a dog show as part of it and Trinny and Susannah had agreed to judge it—it includes a fancy dress competition—but Trinny’s just phoned to say that they’re now filming that day and can’t. What a drag,’ she groaned as she got out her cheque book and began to write. ‘It’s going to be very hard to find anyone else and I’m so busy as it is and—’ Her pen had stopped and she suddenly looked at me. ‘I don’t suppose you’d do it, would you?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
‘But I’m not a celebrity.’
‘Well, Daisy told me that you’ve been on TV. And as an animal behaviourist you’d have tremendous authority, plus, quite frankly—’ she grimaced, ‘—don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m desperate. Would you?’ she pleaded.
‘Well…’
‘I just don’t have time to ring round with everything else I’ve go to do, and in any case I know you’d be brilliant, Miranda, and it’s in such a good cause.’ That was true. ‘I’d be so thrilled if you said yes,’ she added.
Why not, I thought. ‘What would you need me to do?’
‘Judge three of the four different categories. We’re going to have the Waggiest Tail, the Dog Most Like Its Owner, the Fancy Dress competition, and finally, Canine Karaoke…’ She handed me the cheque.
‘Canine Karaoke?’
‘Yes, it’s a total scream. Literally,’ she added with a meaningful grimace.
I smiled. ‘All right then. Why not? But can I bring my dachshund?’
‘Of course. Oh, thank you so much!’ She exhaled, smiled broadly, then clapped her left hand to her chest. ‘That’s such a relief. It kicks off at two thirty and we’re expecting a big crowd, so if you could come half an hour before that would be great.’
‘Okay.’ I stood up. ‘Well, I’d better get going.’ And I’d just picked up my bag when I heard the crunch of wheels on the drive.
‘Oh, there’s my husband. He said he’d be back early. Do come and meet him.’
As we walked down the steps, a dark blue Jaguar pulled up next to my old Astra, then Caroline’s husband got out. Trigger and the two other dogs raced up to him, firing off a volley of excited barks. He bent down to stroke them, then straightened up. And as he did so, then walked towards us, I realized why it was that he’d looked so familiar. I felt as though I’d been pushed off a cliff.
‘Hello, darling,’ he said to Caroline, kissing her as he glanced obliquely at me.
‘James, this is Miranda Sweet.’ Now he looked at me directly, with nothing more than polite curiosity, his face a pleasant, inscrutable mask. But in his grey eyes, unmistakably, was a spark of recognition. In that instant, sixteen years fell away.
‘Miranda’s just worked wonders with Trigger,’ I heard Caroline say warmly. ‘Now don’t blush,’ she laughed. ‘It’s quite true.’ My face was aflame; but not out of modesty. ‘Thanks to Miranda, I now know how to stop his bad behaviour, darling.’
‘Really?’ he said. ‘Well, that’s…great.’
‘He�
�s got a dominance problem, apparently,’ she said with a giggle.
‘Has he now?’
‘He’s got to have his status reduced.’
‘I see.’
‘We’ve got to make him feel less secure.’
‘Is that so?’
‘No more being top dog.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Well… I’ve got…another appointment to get to,’ I lied, my heart banging so loudly I was afraid they could hear it. ‘I’d better be on my way.’
‘Thank you so much for coming out,’ Caroline said, as I fumbled in my bag for my keys. ‘So we’ll see you on Saturday, then?’ I felt my insides twist. ‘Miranda’s going to judge the dog show for us, James. She’s stepped in because Trinny and Susannah from What Not To Wear had to cancel. Isn’t that nice of her?’ Now I bitterly, bitterly regretted having agreed to do it.
‘Oh… Yes,’ he said with a thin smile. ‘That’s great.’
‘About two o’clock, then,’ Caroline repeated cheerily, as I got in my car. She waved at me; I gave her a feeble wave back, then, sick to my heart, I drove slowly away.
My hands trembled like winter leaves as they clutched the steering wheel. Jimmy. Jimmy Smith—not James Mulholland. He’d changed his name. As for his appearance—he was transformed. No wonder I hadn’t recognized him in the wedding photo. I could have passed him in the street and not known. The mass of blond curls and the light beard he’d had at twenty-one had gone, and he was now clean-shaven, receding, and grey. His frame had filled out, and the frayed jeans and jumpers had become Savile Row suits and striped shirts. Only the voice was the same: the smooth, pleasant voice, and the insolent expression in the pale granite eyes.